UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 


UWIVEKSITY  of  CALIFORNIA 

UJS  ANGELES 


CHOICE    READINGS 


STANDARD  AND  POPULAE  AUTHORS 

EMBRACING 

A  COMPLETE  CLASSIFICATION  OF  SELECTIONS,  A  COMPREHENSIVE 

DIAGRAM  OF  THE  PRINCIPLES  OP  VOCAL  EXPRESSION, 

AND  INDEXES  TO  THE  CHOICEST  READINGS 


SHAKESPEARE,  THE  BIBLE,  AND   THE  HYMN-BOOKS 


Compiled  and  Arranged  by 

ROBERT    I.   FULTON,   A.M. 

Dean  of  the  School  of  Oratory  and  Professor  of  Elocution 
AND  Oratory  in  the  Ohio  Wesleyan  University 


THOMAS    C.  TRUEBLOOD,   A.M. 

Professor  of  Elocution  and  Oratory  in  the  University  of  Michigan 


GINN  AND  COMPANY 

boston     •     NEW    YORK     •     CHICAGO     •     LONDON 
ATLANTA     •     DALLAS     •     COLUMBUS     •     SAN    FRANCISCO 


150309 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  years  1884,  1912,  by 

R.  I.  FULTON  AND  T.  C.  TRUEBLOOD 

in  the  office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington 

PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 

225.11 


^ht  iatf)enaeum   3^resii 

GINN  AND  COMPANY  •  PRO- 
PRIETORS •  BOSTON  •  U.S.A. 


T/V 


TO 

AND 

OUR    PUPILS 

This  Volume  is   Affectionately    Inscribed 

BY 

THE    COMPILERS. 


PREFACE. 


"TN  publishing  this  volume  we  make  no  apology  for 
-■-  its  appearance  among  so  many  similar  books  now 
in  the  market.  We  believe  there  is  a  demand  for  it 
in  the  place  it  attempts  to  supply.  Some  features  are 
novel.  Many  selections  are  new;  others  are  old  and 
standard.  We  invite  a  careful  examination  of  the  class 
of  pieces  employed,  their  arrangement  under  the  four- 
teen divisions,  the  Diagram  of  the  Elements  of  Vocal 
Expression,  and  the  Indexes  to  Readings  from  Shake- 
speare, the  Bible,  and  the  Hymn-books. 

The  pieces  have  been  selected  with  regard  to  their 
literary  merit  and  their  adaptation  to  elocutionary  pur- 
poses. The  book  contains  only  those  selections  which, 
if  correctly  delivered,  will  prove  entertaining  and  in- 
structive as  public  and  private  readings.  The  fourteen 
classes  or  divisions  are  comprehensive,  covering  the 
entire  range  of  thought,  and  at  once  indicate  the 
character  of  the  selections  placed  under  them.  To  be 
sure,  many  shades  of  sentiment  often  occur  in  one  piece ; 
but  it  is  believed  that  each  selection,  as  a  wliole^  is 
correctly  classified,  so  that  the  classification  will  be  a 
safe  guide  to  the  pupil.  The  Diagrams  of  the  Princi- 
ples, wliich  are  based  upon  the  philosophy  of  Dr.  James 
Hush,  will  prove  valuable  to  any  student  of  the  art  of 
expression,  but  they  are  intended  more  particularly  to 
assist  our  own  pupils  in  the  interpretation  and  correct 
reading  of  the  contents  of  tliis  volume,  and  also  to 
accompany  '•'' Fulto7i  avid  Truehlood's  New  Chart  of  the 
Principles  of  JSxpression.^^     The  Indexes  are  a  feature 


VI  PREFACE. 

which  has  not,  we  believe,  been  presented  in  any  other 
book  of  readings.  By  them  we  are  enabled  to  use  a 
wide  field  of  matter  without  reprinting  so  much  that  is 
already  published  in  a  cheap  form  and  is  universally 
accessible.  In  short,  the  book  is  intended  for  use  in 
our  growing  profession,  in  social  and  reading  circles, 
and  in  schools  and  colleges ;  and  we  leave  it  upon  its 
own  merits  to  find  its  proper  place  in  public  favour. 

In  compiling  we  have  drawn  from  a  number  of  sources, 
all  of  which  have,  in  some  form,  been  duly  recognized. 
We  here  acknowledge  our  indebtedness  for  the  valuable 
criticisms  and  suggestions  of  the  Rev.  Henry  N.  Hudson, 
the  well-known  Shakespearian,  who  has  revised  and  ap- 
proved the  selections,  and  has  himself  furnished  some 
of  them,  and  has  also  superintended  and  corrected  the 
printing  throughout ;  which  of  itself  should  be  endorse- 
ment enough  to  satisfy  the  most  critical. 

We  also  wish  to  acknowledge  the  courtesy  extended 
to  us  by  the  following  well-known  publishing  firms  in 
allowing  us  the  use  of  selections  of  which  they  hold  the 
copyright :  —  D.  Appleton  &  Co.,  New  York  ;  Clark  & 
Maynard,  New  York ,  S.  C.  Griggs  &  Co.,  Chicago  • 
Harper  Brothers,  New  York  j  Houghton,  Mifflin,  &  Co., 
Boston  ;  J.  B.  Lippincott  &  Co.,  Philadelphia ;  Robert 
Clark  &  Co.,  Cincinnati. 

F.  AND   T. 

Kansas  City,  Mo., 
July  24,  1884. 


ANALYSIS  OF  THE  CONTENTS. 


PAGES. 

I,  Narrative,  Descriptive,  Didactic 1-94 

II.  Love,  Beauty,  Tranquillity 05-124 

III.  Grave,  Solemn,  Serious,  Tathetic 12-5-189 

IV.  Reverence,  Devotion,  Adoration 190-207 

V.  Grand,  Bold,  Sublime 208-225 

VI.    Patriotic,  Senatorial,  Oratorical 226-307 

VII.    Invective,  Vehement,  Indignant 308-327 

VIII.    Lively,  Joyous,  Gay 328-346 

IX.    Humorous,  Comic .347-41.3 

X.   Dialectic : 

Cockney 414-419 

French 420-427 

German   427-430 

Irish 430-444 

Italian 444-449 

Negro 449-458 

Scotch 459-465 

Spanish 465-470 

XL   Onomatopoetic 471-487 

XII.    For  Young  Folks 490-528 

XIII.  Dramatic,  not  in  the  Drama 529-585 

XIV.  Scenes  from  Popular  Dramas  : 

The  Hunchback 586-602 

Ingomar 603-619 

Leah  the  Forsaken 619-623 

Mary  Stuart 62-3-629 

Richelieu 630-633 

School  for  Scandal 6-34-641 

Virginius 641-657 

Ion   657-670 

Don  Carlos 670-680 

Index  to  Readings  from  Shakespeare 681 

«  "  The  Bible 694 

«  "  The  Hymn-Books 698 


OOJ^TEJ^TS. 


Diagram  of  the  Elements  of  Vocal  Expression xvii 

I. 

NARRATIVE,  DESCRIPTIVE,  DIDACTIC. 

page. 

Adam's  Account  of  His  Creation Milton.  2 

Advice  to  Young  Lawyers Story.  4 

Alpine  Minstrelsy Schiller.  39 

Bee-Hunt  in  the  Far  West Irving.  12 

Blind  Fiddler,  The Wordsworth.  26 

Blind  Highland  Boy,  The Wordsworth.  69 

Christmas  Eve  in  the  Olden  Time   Scott.  29 

Child's  Dream  of  a  Star,  A Dickens.  5 

Conscience,  A  Good Anon.  15 

Crusoe's  Fight  with  Wolves Defoe.  83 

Destruction  of  Pompeii Lijtton.  9 

Edwin  and  Angelina Goldsmith.  34 

Elegy  in  a  Country  Churchyard Grai/.  16 

Eve,  The  Creation  of Milton.  3 

First  Settler's  Story,  The Carleton.  20 

Friday's  Frolic  with  a  Bear Defoe.  79 

Happiness  of  Animals Cowper.  93 

History Fronde.  27 

Jennie  M'Neal,  The  Ride  of Carleton.  44 

Knowledge  and  Wisdom Cowper.  1 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere Tennyson.  88 

Legend  of  Bregenz,  A Procter.  40 

Maud  MuUer Whittier.  47 

Mona's  Waters Anun.  51 

Morning Webster.  77 

No  Sects  in  Heaven Cleaveland.  31 

Ode  to  the  Passions ....  Collins.  55 

Order  for  a  Picture,  An   Cary.  58 

Our  Travelled  Parson Carleton.  90 


X  CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

Painter  of  Seville,  The Wilson.       61 

Potency  of  English  Words Mclijtosh.       66 

Scott,  Sir  Walter,  and  His  Dogs Irving.       75 


n. 

LOVE,    BEAUTY,    TRANQUILLITY. 

Astrological  Tower,  The Schiller.  113 

Bridge,  The Longfellow.  107 

Children,  The Dickens.  109 

Genevieve Coleridge.  95 

Graham,  Mr.,  and  Lady  Clementina MacDoriald.  99 

Immortality  of  Love Southey.  Ill 

Lost  Chord,  A Procter.  114 

Memory Garjield.  115 

Memory Wordsworth.  123 

Over  the  River Priest.  117 

Pictures  of  Memory Gary.  119 

Sandalphon Longfellow.  120 

Seen,  Loved,  Wedded Wordsworth.  98 

Tears,  Idle  Tears Tennyson.  117 

Tranquillity,  Ode  to Coleridge.  122 


in. 

GRAVE,  SOLEMN,  SERIOUS,  PATHETIC, 

Angels  of  Buena  Vista,  The Whittier.  125 

Blacksmith's  Story,  The Olive.  136 

Christmas  Day Richards.  134 

Curfew  Must  Not  Ring  To-Night Thorpe.  143 

Death  of  Mr.  Bertram,  The  Scott.  146 

Forty  Years  Ago Anon.  159 

Good  Son,  The Dana.  171 

Hermit,  The Beattie.  131 

How  He  Saved  St.  Michael's Anon.  139 

Isle  of  Long  Ago,  The Taylor.  156 

Ladder  of  St.  Augustine,  The Longfellow.  132 

Leonard  and  Margaret Southey.  165 

Lucy  Bertram  and  Dominie  Sampson Scott.  150 

Lucy  Gray Wordsworth.  183 

Michael  and  His  Son Wordsworth.  162 


CONTENTS.  XI 

PAGE. 

Nearer  Home Gary.  161 

Ocean  Burial,  The Saunders.  169 

Our  Folks , Lynn.  185 

Our  Willie Anon.  158 

Pauper's  Death-Bed,  The Southey.  157 

Poor  Little  Joe Arkuright.  187 

Rivermouth  Rocks Whittier.  177 

Song  of  the  Mystic Ryan.  181 

Stability  of  Virtue,  The Marshall.  168 

Thanatopsis Bryant.  128 

Widow  and  Her  Son,  The Irving.  173 

Winifreda  > Anon.  135 


IV. 

REVERENCE,  DEVOTION,  ADORATION. 

Break,  Break,  Break Tennyson.  198 

Cato's  Soliloquy Addison.  190 

Closing  Year,  The Prentice.  193 

Devotional  Incitements Wordsioorth.  195 

God    Dershavin.  199 

God's  First  Temples Bryant.  202 

Hymn,  A Coleridge.  192 

Inspiration  of  the  Bible   Winthrop.  197 

Primrose  of  the  Rock,  The Wordsworth.  206 

Supreme  Being,  To  the Michael  Angela.  191 


V. 

GRAND,  BOLD,  SUBLIME. 

Apollo,  Ode  to Keats.  220 

Apostrophe  to  the  Ocean Byron.  208 

God  in  Nature , Wordsivorth.  224 

Hymn  to  Mont  Blanc Coleridge.  212 

Hymn  to  the  Night Longfelloiu.  210 

Launching  of  the  Ship Longfellow.  218 

Marco  Bozzaris Hallech.  214 

St.  Peter's  Church  at  Rome Byron.  222 

Vision  of  Mist-Splendours,  A Wordsworth.  210 


Xll  CONTENTS. 

VI. 

PATRIOTIC,    SENATORIAL,    ORATORICAL.. 

The  Seven  Great  Oratoes  of  the  World.  page. 

Fortune  of  ^schines Demosthenes.  226 

Panegyric  on  Julius  Caesar Cicero.  230 

Divine  Providence  in  Nature Chrysostom.  233 

Eulogium  on  St.  Paul Bossuet.  236 

Against  the  Stamp-Act Chatham.  238 

Impeachment  of  Hastings  Finished Burke.  242 

Supposed  Speech  of  John  Adams Webster.  245 

Ambition  of  a  Statesman Clay.  298 

Appeal  in  Behalf  of  Ireland Prentiss.  296 

Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade Tennyson.  307 

Composed  at  Cora  Linn , . . .  Wordsn-orth.  249 

Eulogy  on  Lafayette , Everett.  283 

Flag,  The  American Drake.  270 

Horatius  at  the  Bridge Macauluy.  256 

Independence  Bell Anon.  267 

Liberty  and  Union Webster.  266 

Lochiel's  Warning Campbell.  288 

Massachusetts  and  South  Carolina Webster.  304 

"  Matches  and  Overmatches  " Webster.  280 

Our  Duties  to  the  Republic Story.  264 

Patriotism Scott.  251 

Paul  Revere 's  Ride Longfellow.  252 

Pitt's  Reply  to  Walpole 262 

Reply  to  Mr.  Corry Grattan.  274 

Reputation,  Value  of Charles  Phillips.  300 

Rienzi's  Address  to  the  Romans Mitford.  286 

Rising  of  1776,  The Read.  272 

Speech  in  the  Virginia  Convention Henry.  290 

Speech  of  Vindication Emmett.  293 

Toussaint  L'Overture Wendell  Phillips.  302 

Walpole's  Attack  on  Pitt 260 

Wisdom  Dearly  Purchased Burke.  277 

VTT. 

INVECTIVE,  VEHEMENT,    INDIGNANT. 

Arraignment  of  Ministers Burke.  318 

Catiline's  Defiance Croly.  308 


CONTENTS.  Xm 

PAGE. 

Fraudulent  Party  Outcries Webster.  324 

Horrors  of  Savage  Warfare Chatham.  315 

Indignation  of  a  Spaniard Wordsworth.  327 

Marniion  and  Douglas Scott.  312 

Revolutionary  Desperadoes Mackintosh.  321 

Seminole's  Reply,  The Patten.  314 

Spartacus  to  the  Gladiators Anon.  310 


vni. 

LIVELY,   JOYOUS,   GAY. 

Boys,  The Holmes.  339 

Daffodils,  The Wordsworth.  330 

Expostulation  and  Reply Wordsworth.  341 

Fish- Women  at  Calais Wordsworth.  346 

I'm  With  You  Once  Again Morris.  334 

L'Allegro Milton.  328 

Last  Leaf,  The Holmes.  335 

Morning  Ride,  A Anon.  333 

New  Year,  The Tennyson.  345 

Pleasure-Boat,  The Dana.  343 

Psalm  of  Life,  A Lonyfelloiv.  338 

Song  of  the  Brook Tennyson.  336 

Young  Lochinvar Scott.  331 


IX. 

HUMOROUS,   COMIC. 

Aunt  Tabitha Holmes.  347 

Awfully  Lovely  Philosophy Anon.  348 

Bald-Headed  Man,  The Anon.  350 

Betsey  and  I  Are  Out Carleton.  409 

Brakeman  at  Church,  The Burdeite.  353 

Champion  Snorer,  The Anon.  357 

Courtship  under  Difficulties Anon.  359 

Darius  Green  and  His  Flying-Machine Trowbridye.  364 

Death  of  a  Mad  Dog Goldsmith.  408 

How  Betsy  and  I  Made  Up Carleton.  411 

How  "  Ruby"  Played Baghy.  371 

How  the  Old  Horse  Won  the  Bet Holmes.  389 

Our  Guides Twain.  2!lb 


Xiv  CONTENTS. 

FAOB, 

Pickwick's  Proposal,  Mr Dickens.  379 

Pyramus  and  Thisbe Saxe.  386 

Reflections  in  the  Pillory Lamb.  404 

Sam  Weller's  Valentine Dickens.  382 

Tom's  Little  Star , .  Foster.  395 

Too  Late  for  the  Train Anon.  400 


DIALECTIC. 

Cockney. 

Lord  Dundreary  Proposing SkiU.  414 

The  Swell Kyle.  417 

French. 

Frenchman  and  Flea-Powder Anon.  420 

A  Frenchman  on  Macbeth Anon.  421 

Monsieur  Tonson Anon.  422 

German. 

Leedle  Yawcob  Strauss .Adams.  427 

"  Sockery  "  Setting  a  Hen Anon.  429 

Irish. 

Connor Anon.  430 

Miss  Malony  on  the  Chinese Dodge.  437 

Jimmy  Butler  and  the  Owl Anon  440 

Italian. 

A  Senator  Entangled De  MiUe.  444 

Negro. 

Christmas-Night  in  the  Quarters Russell.  449 

The  First  Banjo Russell.  453 

Uncle  DanTs  Apparition Clemens  and  Warner.  456 

Scotch. 

Charlie  Maehree Hoppin.  459 

Cuddle  Doon Anderson.  460 

John  Anderson,  My  Jo Bums.  461 

Jeanie  Morrison  Motherwell.  462 

Spanish. 

Magdalena  ,  or,  the  Spanish  Duel Waller.  465 


CONTENTS.  XV 

XI. 

ONOMATOPOETIC. 

VASE. 

Bella,  The Poe.  471 

Bugle  Song Tennyson.  473 

Charcoal  Man,  The Trowbridge.  474 

Creeds  of  the  Bells Bungay.  476 

Drifting Read.  487 

Evening  at  the  Farm Trowbridge.  478 

Last  Hymn,  The Farmingham.  480 

Little  Telltale,  The Anon.  481 

Robert  of  Lincoln Bryant.  483 

■"Rock  of  Ages" Rice.  485 

xn. 

FOR   YOUNG   FOLKS. 

Annie  and  Willie's  Prayer Sno%v.  490 

Better  in  the  Morning Coan.  521 

Butterfly's  Ball,  The Roscoe.  515 

Dead  Doll,  The Vandergrijl.  493 

Evening  with  Helen's  Babies Habberton.  495 

In  School  Days Whittier.  609 

Katie  Lee  and  Willie  Grey Hunt.  497 

Keeping  His  Word Anon.  499 

Leap  for  Life,  A Colton.  501 

Little  Rocket's  Christmas  Brown.  502 

Love  and  Prayer Coleridge.  528 

Margaret  Gray Lamb.  518 

No  Flowers  on  Papa's  Grave C.  E.  L.  Holmes.  514 

Papa's  Letter Anon.  507 

Rats Loudon.  527 

Smack  in  School,  The Palmer.  517 

Somebody's  Mother Anon.  511 

Tame  Hares Cowper.  523 

To  Whom  shall  We  give  Thanks  ? Anon.  512 

XIII. 

DRAMATIC,   NOT  IN  THE  DRAMA. 

Beautiful  Snow  The Watson.  529 

Bernardo  del  Carpio Hemans.  531 

Claudius  and  Cjoithia Thompson,  bll 

Coxmt  Candaspina's  Standard Boker.  533 


XVI  CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

Famine,  The Longfellow.  536 

Gambler's  Wife,  The  Coates.  543 

Gone  witli  a  Handsomer  Man Carleton.  569 

John  Maynard,  The  Hero-Pilot Goiigh.  645 

Johnny  Bartholomew   English.  584 

Lady  Clare Tennyson.  546 

Maclaine's  Child Mackay.  549 

Mother  and  Poet Mrs.  Browning.  652 

Parrhasius  and  the  Captive Willis.  555 

Polish  Boy,  The Stephens.  557 

Scotland's  Maiden  Martyr Anon.  582 

Searching  for  the  Slain A7ion.  575 

Shelly,  Kate , Hall.  541 

Vagabonds,  The Trowbridge.  572 

Virginia :  a  Lay  of  Ancient  Rome Macaulay.  561 

Wreck  of  the  Hesperus,  The Longfellow.  566 

Wounded Miller.  564 


XIV. 

SCENES   PROM   POPULAR   DRAMAS. 

The  Hunchback,  Act  I.  Scene  II Knowles. 

ActL     Scene  III " 

-Act  IV,  Scene  II " 

Act  V.    Scene  I 

Ingomar,  Act  I.  Scene  I Halm. 

Act  II.   Scene  I " 

Act  IV.  Scene  I " 

Leah,  the  Forsaken,  Act  IV.  Scene  II Daly. 

Mary  Stuart,  Act  III.  Scene  TV Schiller. 

Richelieu,  Act  IV.  Scene  I Lytton. 

The  Scliool  for  Scandal,  Act  II.  Scene  I Sheridan. 

Act  III.  Scene  I " 

Virginius,  Act  I.  Scene  II Knowles. 

Act  II.   Scene  11 " 

Act  IV.  Scene  II 

Ion ;  a  Tragedy,  Act  I.  Scene  I Talfourd. 

Act  I.  Scene  II 

Don  Carlos,  Act  III.  Scene  IX Schiller. 

Index  to  Scenes  from  Shakespeare 681 

Index  to  Readings  from  tlie  Bible  694 

Index  to  Hymns 698 

Alphabetical  Index  of  Selections 703 


DIAGRAM 

OP 

THE   ELEMENTS    OF    VOCAL    EXPRESSION. 


[Note.  —  The  object  of  tliis  Diagram  is  to  present  at  a  glance  all 
the  Principles  of  vocal  expression,  and  to  show  in  a  brief  and  convenient 
form  the  kinds  of  thought  they  express.  There  is  no  attempt  here  to 
give  all  the  sentiments  expressed  by  each  Element,  but  only  such  repre- 
sentative  words  are  used  as  will  direct  the  thoughts  of  the  pupil  into 
the  right  channel.  The  different  shades  and  changes  of  sentiment,  as 
they  occur  in  a  selection,  will  at  once  be  understood  by  the  context ; 
and,  by  reference  to  tliis  Diagram,  the  student  can  easily  determine  the 
Elements  required  for  a  correct  and  natural  expression.] 


bJ 

hi 


a.  QUANTITY  . 


6.  PAUSE 


C  MOVEMENT 


d.  RHYTHMUS. 


LONG. 


MODERATE 
L  SHORT 


INTERSYLLABIC 


PROSODIAL  .  . 
RHETORICAL  .  . . 

GRAMMATICAL  . 

EMOTIONAL 

VERY  RAPID 

RAPID 

MODERATE    . 

SLOW 

VERY  SLOW . 


{Pathos.  Sorrow.  Solemnity.  Sub- 
limity. Awe.  Reverence.  Adora- 
tion. Apostrophe.  Commanding. 
Calling. 
[■  Narrative,  didactic,  bold,  and  lofty 
-j  thought.  Secrecy.  Alarm.  Cour- 
(.  age.  Grandeur, 
rjoy.   Mirth.    Laughter.    Exciting 

<  appeal.  Impatience.  Detestation. 
L    Fright.  Anger.  Contempt. 

Used   between   syllables  of   very 
emphatic  words  for  articulative 
enforcement. 
("Used  to  mark  the  prosody  of  verse 
.  <    only    when    the    emjjhaeis    and 
(.    measure  of  speech  coincide. 
rUeed  in  phrasing  spoken  discourse 
, .  <    to  make  the  sense  apparent  to 
(.    the  ear. 

{Used  to  show  the  grammatical  con- 
struction  of    written    discourse, 
and  represented  to  the  eye  by  the 
punctuation  marks, 
f  Used  before  and  after  a  word,  or 

<  group  of  words,  expressing  very 
{    strong  emotion. 


f  Ecstatic  joy.     Laughter.    Fright. 
•^    Lyric  description.  Wrath.  Anxi- 
[    ety.   Excitement. 
("Gladness.  Exciting  appeal.  Mirth. 

<  Animated  description.  Anger. 
[    Defiance.    Alarm. 

C  Ordinary  conversation.     Didactic 
■I    and  oratorical  thought.  Grandeur. 
[    Seriousness.   Secrecy.   Hate. 
["Gravity.  Solemn  narration.  Pathos. 

<  Reverence.  Awe.  Sublimity. 
[    Command. 

f  Melancholy.  Gloom.  Despair, 
-j  Adoration.  Profound  repose. 
(.    Deepest  awe  and  sublimity 


XVlll 


DIAGRAM    OF    THE 


f  NOKMAI.  . 

r  a.   \   OROTUND 

1  ORAL,  .  .  .  . 


ASPIRATE  . 

b.    ■[   GUTTURAL,. 

PECTORAL. . 


NASAL,  .  .  . 
FALSETTO 


Elevating  and  Ennobling  Thought. 


Secret  and  Malignant  Thought. 


BUBLESQUt   AND  MiMIC  THOUGHT. 


a.  FORM  . 


f  EFFUSIVE 


EXPULSIVE 


ii^ORMAL ....  Solemnity.     Tranquillity.     Pathos. 
Orotund  .  .  .  Reverence.    Sublimity.    Devotion. 
Oral Sicliuess.    Feebleness.    Weakness. 
Aspirate  .  .  .  Stillness.    Secrecy.    Suppressed  fear. 
Pectoral  .  .  .  Deepest  solemnity,  awe,  and  adoration. 

C  Normal  ....  Conversation.  Didactic  thought.  Gladness 
I  Orotund  .  .  .  Grandeur.  Patriotism.  Oratorical  thought 

Oral Languor.   Fatigue.    Exhaustion. 

Aspirate  .  .  .  Sudden  fear.    Suppressed  command. 

Guttural  .  .  Impatience.    Scorn.    Hate.    Revenge. 

Pectoral  .  .  .  Dread.    Amazement.    Horror. 


f Normal  . 


EXPLGSIVE^OnoTUN^D. 


.  Gaiety.    Ecstatic  joy.    Laughier. 
.  Courage.    Defiance.    Alarm. 
.  Terror.    Intense  fear  and  horror. 
I.  Guttural  .  .  Violent  hate.    Anger.    Rage. 


h.  DEGREE-^ 


IMPASSIONED 


ENERGETIC . 


MODERATE 


Ecstatic  joy.  Rapture.  Shouting.  Courage.  Defi- 
ance. Alarm.  Intense  fear.  Terror.  Anger. 
Loathing. 

Laughter.  Gaity.  Bold  and  lofty  appeal.  Grandeur. 
Fear.  Suppressed  command.  Contempt.  Lyric 
description. 

:  Narration.  Description.  Didactic  thought.  Pathos. 
Solemnity.  Sublimity.  Devotion.  Secrecy. 
Despair.    Scorn. 

Seriousness.  Tranquillity.  Fatigue.  Weakness. 
Feebleness.    Stillness.    Awe.    Profound  repose. 

m  A  run  a  t  )  Didactic  thought.  Patriotism.  Impatience.  Secrecy. 

KAJJlCAL, j      Dread.    Mirth.     Rapture.    Intense  fear.   Anger. 

Surprise.  Resolution.  Determination.  Stubborn, 
ness.  Revenge.  Hate.  Scorn.  Horror.  Rage. 
Rebuke. 


L SUBDUED 


C.  STRESS 


COMPOUND 


<L  Irony.     Mockery. 
I     Taunt.  Sarcasm. 


Raillery.      Ridicule.     Satire. 
Derision.   Contempt.  Scoffing. 


■MTTTiTATa-  t  Pathos.    Sadness.    Melancholy.    Stillness.    Tran- 

jVLUiUiiUN I     quillity.    Reverence.    Sublimity.    Awe. 

»riTrvT?r»TTriw  S  Defiance.   Command.    Triumph.    Shouting.    Call 

lUUKUUUH ^      i^g_    Indignation.    Warning.    Lofty  appeal. 

Grief.  Tenderness.  Feebleness.  Senility.  Sorrow. 
LINTERMITTENT   \     Timidity.    Extreme  pathos.    Fright.   Ecstatic 
joy. 


ELEMENTS    OF    VOCAL    EXPRESSION. 


XIX 


a.  DEGKKE  I 


VERT  HIGH   .  .    Ecstatic  Joy.    Laughter.    Fright.    Alarm.  Terror. 

I  Animated  description.     Defiance.    Joy.     Feebleness. 
HIGH }      Secret  thought.   Violent  hate.    Calling.    Command. 

(      Courage.    Patriotism. 

(  Mirth.    Conversation.    Fatigue.    Seriousness.    Rever- 
MIDDLE \     ence.     Grandeur.     Sudden  fear.    Anger.     Pathos. 

(     Revenge. 

{  Grave  narration.      Gloom.      Despair.      Melancholy. 
LOW I      Solemnity.  Adoration.   Suppressed  fear.   Loathing. 

(      Contempt. 
VERY  LOW.  .  .    Sublimity.     Awe.    Deepest  reverence  and  devotion. 


'Bising:.  . 
Falling: . 


-.CONCRETE 


6.  CHANGE   < 


'Sbmitone 
Second  . . 

■  Third  . . . 
Fifth  .  . . 
Octave  • . 


Single  . . . 
Double  .  .  . 
Continued 


fKinds 


.DISCRETE  \^ 

I  Down- 

^vard 


{Semitone 
Second  . . 
Third  .  .  . 
Fifth  . .  . 
Octave  . . 


J  Distress.    Crying.    Pity.    Love. 

(     Plaintiveness.  Extreme  pathos. 

j  Reverence.  Sadness.  Awe.  Sub- 

I      limity.     Tranquillity. 

(  Conversation.  Wit.  Playfulness. 

(     Earnest  appeal. 

j  Joy.     Delight.     Anger.     Hate. 

(     Alarm.    I)etiance. 

{  Extreme  surprise.   Intense  fear. 

I     Impassioned  exclamation. 

Used    in    lengthening    the 
quantity  of  words  without 
overstepping  the  interval 
the  passion  requires. 
Emphatic  distinction.  Gallantry. 
\     Love.   Solemnity.   Reverence. 
TTi.TT,.^TT.T       i  Irony.  Derision.  Sarcasm.  Rail- 
UNEQUAL..|      ,gj.y_   jjoc^ery.  Contempt. 

Admiration.  Joy.  Positiveness. 

Decisiveness.       Fearlessness. 

Determination. 

{ Indeflniteness.  Antithesis.  Inter- 

J     rogation.  Surprise.  Wavering. 

(     Cowardice. 

Associated  in  the  same  styles 
of  thought  with  the  corre- 
sponding degrees  of  the 
rising  and  falUng  inflec- 
tion, to  give  character  to 
expression. 

Used,  forthe  most  part,  in  con- 
junction with  concretes  of 
the  same  internals,  through 
thed  iff  erentdegreesof  pitch, 
for  variety  in  expression. 


Equal. 


Direct , 


Inverted 

{Semitone 
Second  . . 
Third  .  .  . 
Fifth  . . . 
Octave  .  . 


MELODY 


C  Monotone 

I  Rising  Ditone  .  . 
rr>TTRT?TnsrT  J  Falling  Ditone  .  ( 
CUKKJiJN  1  <  Rising  Tritone  .  f 
Falling  Tritone 
[alternation  .  .  . 


fUsed  in  connection  with  the  differ- 
J  ent  degrees  for  giving  variety  to 
I  the  succession  of  speech-notes,  as 
(.     they  occur  iii  all  styles  of  thought 


f  Triad . 


CADENCE  i  Duad 


Rising 


Falling , 
First  .  . 


I  Used  when  the  last  three  syllables 
.  \     of  the  sentence  are  about  equally 
(      emphatic 
S  L'^sed  when  the  antepenultimate  syl- 

■  )     lable  of  the  sentence  is  accented. 
I  Used  when  the  penultimate  syllable 

■  )     of  the  sentence  is  accented. 
(Used   when    the    ultimate   syllable 

Second  . .  .1     of   the    sentence    is   moderately 
'     accented. 
(Used  when  the  ultimate  syllable  of  the  closing 
.Monad   }     word  is  heuvily  accented,  or  when  the  sentence 
I     ends  in  a  very  emphatic  monosyllable. 


Choice  Readikgs. 
I. 

NARRATIVE,   DESCRIPTIVE,   DIDACTIC 

KNOWLEDGE  AND  WISDOM. 

William  Cowper. 

Knowledge  and  wisdom,  far  from  being  one, 

Have  ofttimes  no  connection.     Knowledge  dwells 

In  heads  replete  with  thoughts  of  other  men, 

Wisdom  in  minds  attentive  to  their  own. 

Knowledge,  a  rude  unprofitable  mass. 

The  mere  materials  with  which  wisdom  builds, 

Till  smooth'd  and  squared  and  fitted  to  its  place, 

Does  but  encumber  whom  it  seems  t'  enrich. 

Knowledge  is  proud  that  he  has  learn 'd  so  much ; 

Wisdom  is  humble  that  he  knows  no  more. 

Books  are  not  seldom  talismans  and  spells, 

By  which  the  magic  art  of  shrewder  wits 

Holds  an  unthinking  multitude  enthrall'd. 

Some  to  the  fascination  of  a  name 

Surrender  judgment  hoodwink'd.     Some  the  style 

Infatuates,  and  through  labyrinths  and  wilds 

Of  error  leads  them,  by  a  tune  entranced ; 

While  sloth  seduces  more,  too  weak  to  bear 

The  insupportable  fatigue  of  thought. 

And  swallowing  therefore,  without  pause  or  choice, 

The  total  grist  unsifted,  husks  and  all. 

But  trees,  and  rivulets  whose  rapid  course 


CHOICE   READINGS. 

Defies  the  check  of  Whiter,  haunts  of  deer, 

And  sheepwalks  populous  with  bleathig  lambs, 

And  lanes  in  which  the  primrose  ere  her  time 

Peeps  through  the  moss  that  clothes  the  hawthorn  root, 

Deceive  no  student.     Wisdom  there,  and  Truth, 

Not  shy  as  in  the  world,  and  to  be  won 

By  slow  solicitation,  seize  at  once 

The  roving  thought,  and  fix  it  on  themselves. 

ADAM'S  ACCOUNT  OF  HIS  CREATION. 

John  Milton. 

For  man  to  tell  how  human  life  began, 

Is  hard  ;  for  who  himself  beginning  knew? 

Desire  with  thee  still  longer  to  converse 

Induced  me.     As  new-waked  from  soundest  sleep, 

Soft  on  the  flowery  herb  I  found  me  laid, 

In  balmy  sweat ;  which  with  his  beams  the  Sun 

Soon  dried,  and  on  the  reeking  moisture  fed. 

Straight  towards  heaven  my  wondering  eyes  I  turn'd, 

And  gazed  awhile  the  ample  sky ;  till,  raised 

B}^  quick  instinctive  motion,  up  I  sprung, 

As  thitherward  endeavouring,  and  upright 

Stood  on  my  feet.     About  me  round  I  saw 

Hill,  dale,  and  shady  woods,  and  sunny  plains. 

And  liquid  lapse  of  murmuring  streams  ;  by  these, 

Creatures  that  lived  and  moved,  and  walk'd  or  flew  ; 

Birds  on  the  branches  warbling  ;  all  things  smiled  ; 

With  fragrance  and  with  joy  ray  heart  o'erflow'd. 

Myself  I  then  perused,  and  limb  by  limb 

Survey 'd  ;  and  sometimes  went,  and  sometimes  ran 

With  supple  joints,  as  livel}'  vigour  led : 

But  who  I  was,  or  where,  or  from  what  cause. 

Knew  not.     To  speak  I  tried,  and  forthwith  spake ; 

My  tongue  obey'd,  and  readily  could  name 


ADAM    DESCRIBING    THE    CREATION    OF    EVE. 

Whate'er  I  saw.     "  Thou  Sun,"  said  I,  "  fair  light, 
And  thou,  enlighten'd  Earth,  so  fresh  and  gay  ; 
Ye  hills  and  dales  ;  ye  rivers,  woods,  and  plains ; 
And  ye  that  live  and  move,  fair  creatures  !  tell, 
Tell,  if  ye  saw,  how  came  I  thus?  how  here?" 


ADAM  DESOEIBING  THE  OEEATION  OF  EVE. 

John  Milton. 

Mine  eyes  he  closed,  but  open  left  the  cell 

Of  fancy,  my  internal  sight,  by  which 

Abstract,  as  in  a  trance,  methought  I  saw, 

Though  sleeping,  where  I  lay,  and  saw  the  shape 

Still  glorious  before  whom  awake  I  stood ; 

Who,  stooping,  open'd  my  left  side,  and  took 

From  thence  a  rib,  with  cordial  spirits  warm, 

And  life-blood  streaming  fresh  ;  wide  was  the  wound. 

But  suddenly  with  flesh  fill'd  up  and  heal'd : 

The  rib  he  form'd  and  fashion'd  with  his  hands ; 

Under  his  forming  hands  a  creature  grew, 

Man-like,  but  diflferent  sex,  so  lovely  fair, 

That  what  seem'd  fair  in  all  the  world  seem'd  now 

Mean,  or  in  her  summ'd  up,  in  her  contain'd, 

And  in  her  looks  ;  which  from  that  time  infused 

Sweetness  into  m}-  heart  unfelt  before, 

And  into  all  things,  from  her  air,  inspu'ed 

The  spirit  of  love  and  amorous  delight. 

She  disappear'd,  and  left  me  dark  ;  I  waked 

To  find  her,  or  for  ever  to  deplore 

Her  loss,  and  other  pleasures  all  abjure ; 

When  out  of  hope,  behold  her,  not  far  off, 

Such  as  I  saw  her  in  my  dream,  adorn'd 

With  all  that  Earth  or  Heaven  could  bestow 

To  make  her  amiable.     On  she  came. 

Led  by  her  heavenly  Maker,  though  unseen, 


CHOICE   READINGS. 

And  guided  by  his  voice  ;  nor  uninform'd 

Of  nuptial  sanctity  and  marriage  rites  : 

Griace  was  in  all  her  steps,  Heaven  in  her  eye, 

In  every  gesture  dignity  and  love. 

I,  overjoy'd,  could  not  forbear  aloud : 

"  This  turn  hath  made  amends ;  Thou  hast  fulfill'd 

Thy  words,  Creator  bounteous  and  benign, 

Giver  of  all  things  fair !  but  fairest  this 

Of  all  Thy  gifts  ;  nor  enviest.     I  now  see 

Bone  of  my  bone,  flesh  of  my  flesh,  myself 

Before  me  :  Woman  is  her  name,  of  man 

Extracted :  for  this  cause  he  shall  forego 

Father  and  mother,  and  to  his  wife  adhere ; 

And  they  shall  be  one  flesh,  one  heart,  one  soul.*' 

ADYIOE  TO  YOUNG  LAWYERS. 

Judge  Story. 

Whene'er  you  speak,  remember  every  cause 
Stands  not  on  eloquence,  but  stands  on  laws  ; 
Pregnant  in  matter,  in  expression  brief, 
Let  every  sentence  stand  with  bold  relief; 
On  trifling  points  nor  time  nor  talents  waste, 
A  sad  offense  to  learning  and  to  taste  ; 
Nor  deal  with  pompous  phrase,  nor  e'er  suppose 
Poetic  flights  belong  to  reasoning  prose. 

Loose  declamation  may  deceive  the  crowd. 
And  seem  more  striking  as  it  grows  more  loud ; 
But  sober  sense  rejects  it  with  disdain, 
As  nought  but  empty  noise,  and  weak  as  vain. 

The  froth  of  words,  the  schoolboy's  vain  parade 
Of  books  and  cases, —  all  his  stock  in  trade,  — 
The  pert  conceits,  the  cunning  tricks  and  play 
Of  low  attorneys,  strung  in  long  array, 


A    CHILD  S    DREAM    OF    A    STAR. 

Th'  unseemly  jest,  the  petulant  replj', 
That  chatters  on,  and  cares  not  how  or  why, 
Strictly  avoid  ;  —  unworthy  themes  to  scan, 
The}-  sink  the  speaker  and  disgrace  the  man  ; 
Like  the  false  lights  by  flying  shadows  cast, 
Scarce  seen  when  present,  and  forgot  when  past. 

Begin  with  dignity  ;  expound  with  grace 

Each  ground  of  reasoning  in  its  time  and  place  ; 

Let  order  reign  throughout ;  each  topic  touch, 

Nor  urge  its  power  too  little  nor  too  much  ; 

Give  each  strong  thought  its  most  attractive  view. 

In  diction  clear  and  yet  severel}-  true  ; 

And,  as  the  arguments  in  splendour  grow. 

Let  each  reflect  its  light  on  all  below : 

When  to  the  close  arrived,  make  no  delays 

By  petty  flourishes  or  verbal  plays. 

But  sum  the  whole  in  one  deep,  solemn  strain, 

Like  a  strong  current  hastening  to  the  main. 


A  CHILD'S  DEEAM  OF  A  STAR. 

Charles  Dickens. 

There  was  once  a  child,  and  he  strolled  about  a  good 
deal,  and  thought  of  a  number  of  things.  He  had  a 
sister  who  was  a  child  too,  and  his  constant  companion. 
They  wondered  at  the  beauty  of  flowers;  they  won- 
dered at  the  height  and  blueness  of  the  sky ;  they  won- 
dered at  the  depth  of  the  water ;  they  wondered  at  the 
goodness  and  power  of  God,  who  made  them  lovely. 

They  used  to  say  to  one  another  sometimes :  Suppos- 
ing all  the  children  upon  Earth  were  to  die,  would  the 
flowers,  and  the  water,  and  the  sky  be  sorry?  They 
believed  they  would  be  sorry.  For,  said  they,  the  buds 
are  the  children  of  the  flowers,  and  the  little  playful 


CHOICE    READINGS. 


streams  that  gambol  clown  the  hillsides  are  the  children 
of  the  water,  and  the  smallest  bright  specks  playing 
at  hide  and  seek  in  the  sky  all  night  must  surely  be 
the  children  of  the  stars ;  and  they  would  all  be  grieved 
to  see  their  playmates,  the  children  of  men,  no  more- 
There  was  one  clear  shining  star  that  used  to  come 
out  in  the  sky  before  the  rest,  near  the  church  spire, 
above  the  graves.  It  was  larger  and  more  beautiful, 
they  thought,  than  all  the  others,  and  every  night  they 
watched  for  it,  standing  hand-in-hand  at  a  window. 
Whoever  saw  it  first,  cried  out,  "  I  see  the  star."  And 
after  that,  they  cried  out  both  together,  knowing  so 
well  when  it  would  rise,  and  where.  So  they  grew  to 
be  such  friends  with  it  that,  before  laying  down  in  their 
bed,  they  always  looked  out  once  again  to  bid  it  good 
night;  and  when  ihej  were  turning  around  to  sleep, 
they  used  to  say,  "  God  bless  the  star !  " 

But  while  she  was  still  very  young,  O,  very  young, 
the  sister  drooped,  and  came  to  be  so  weak  that  she 
could  no  longer  stand  in  the  window  at  night,  and  then 
the  child  looked  sadly  out  by  himself,  and,  when  he  saw 
the  star,  turned  round  and  said  to  the  patient  pale  face 
on  the  bed,  "I  see  the  star!  "  and  then  a  smile  would 
come  upon  the  face,  and  a  little  weak  voice  used  to  say, 
'"'  God  bless  my  brother  and  the  star !  " 

And  so  the  time  came,  all  too  soon,  when  the  child 
looked  out  all  alone,  and  when  there  was  no  face  on  the 
bed,  and  when  there  was  a  grave  among  the  graves,  not 
there  before,  and  when  the  star  made  long  rays  down 
toward  him  as  he  saw  it  through  his  tears. 

Now  these  rays  were  so  bright,  and  they  seemed  to 
make  such  a  sliining  way  from  Earth  to  Heaven,  that 
when  the  cliild  went  to  his  solitary  bed,  he  dreamed 
about  the  star ;  and  dreamed  that,  laying  where  he  was, 


A  child's  dream  of  a  star.  7 

he  saw  a  train  of  people  taken  up  that  sparkling-  road 
by  angels ;  and  the  star,  opening,  showing  hiin  a  great 
world  of  light,  where  many  more  such  angels  waited  to 
receive  them. 

All  these  angels,  who  were  waiting,  turned  their 
beaming  eyes  upon  the  people  who  were  carried  up  into 
the  star :  and  some  came  out  from  the  Ions:  rows  in 
which  they  stood,  and  fell  upon  the  people's  necks,  and 
kissed  them  tenderly,  and  went  away  with  them  down 
avenues  of  ligltt,  and  were  so  happy  in  their  company, 
that  lying  in  his  bed  he  wept  for  joy. 

But  there  were  many  angels  who  did  not  go  with 
them,  and  among  them  one  he  knew.  The  patient  face 
that  once  had  lain  upon  the  bed  was  glorified  and  ra- 
diant, but  his  heart  found  out  his  sister  among  all  the 
host. 

His  sister's  angel  lingered  near  the  entrance  of  the 
star,  and  said  to  the  leader  among  those  who  had 
brought  the  people  thither, 

"  Is  my  brother  come  ?  " 

And  he  said,  "  No ! " 

She  was  turning  hopefully  away,  when  the  child 
stretched  out  his  arms,  and  cried,  "  O,  sister,  I  am 
here !  Take  me  !  "  And  then  she  turned  her  beaming 
eyes  upon  him,  —  and  it  was  night ;  and  the  star  was 
shining  into  the  room,  making  long  rays  down  towards 
him  as  he  saw  it  through  his  tears. 

From  that  hour  forth,  the  child  looked  out  upon  the 
star  as  the  home  he  was  to  go  to  when  his  time  should 
come ;  and  he  thought  that  he  did  not  belong  to  the 
Earth  alone,  but  to  the  star  too,  because  of  his  sister's 
angel  gone  before. 

There  was  a  baby  born  to  be  a  brother  to  the  child, 
and,  while  he  was  so  little  that  he  never  yet  had  spoken 


8  Choick;  readings. 

a  word,  he  stretched  out  his  tiny  form  on  his  bed,  and 
died. 

Again  the  child  dreamed  of  the  opened  star,  and  of 
the  company  of  angels,  and  the  train  of  people,  and  the 
rows  of  angels,  witli  their  beaming  eyes  all  turned  upon 
those  people's  faces. 

Said  his  sister's  angel  to  the  leader, 

"  Is  my  brother  come  ?  " 

And  he  said,  "  Not  that  one,  but  another !  " 

As  the  child  beheld  his  brother's  an^l  in  her  arms, 
he  cried,  "  O,  my  sister,  I  am  here  !  Take  me  !  "  And 
she  turned  and  smiled  upon  him,  —  and  the  star  was 
shining. 

He  grew  to  be  a  young  man,  and  was  busy  at  his 
books,  when  an  old  servant  came  to  him  and  said, 

"  Thy  mother  is  no  more.  I  bring  her  blessing  on 
her  darling  son." 

Again  at  night  he  saw  the  star,  and  all  that  former 
company.  Said  his  sister's  angel  to  the  leader,  "Is  my 
brother  come  ?  " 

And  he  said,  "Thy  mother!" 

A  mighty  cry  of  joy  went  forth  through  all  the  star, 
because  the  mother  was  re-united  to  her  two  children. 
And  he  stretched  out  his  arms  and  cried,  "  O,  mother, 
sister,  and  brother,  I  am  here  !  Take  me  !  "  And  they 
answered  him,  "  Not  yet !  "  — ■  and  the  star  was  shining. 

He  grew  to  be  a  man,  whose  hair  was  turning  gray, 
and  he  was  sitting  in  his  chair  by  the  fireside,  heavy 
with  grief,  and  with  his  face  bedewed  with  tears,  when 
the  star  opened  once  again. 

Said  his  sister's  angel  to  the  leader,  "  Is  my  brother 
come  ?  " 

And  he  said,  "  Nay,  but  his  maiden  daughter  ! " 

And  the  man  who  had  been  the  child  saw  his  daughter, 


DESTRUCTION   OF   POMPEII.  9 

newly  lost  to  him,  a  celestial  creature  among  those  three, 
and  he  said,  "  My  daughter's  head  is  on  my  sister's 
bosom,  and  her  arm  is  around  my  mother's  neck,  and  at 
her  feet  is  the  baby  of  old  time,  and  I  can  bear  the  part- 
ing from  her,  God  be  praised ! "  —  And  the  star  was 
shining. 

Thus  the  child  came  to  be  an  old  man,  and  his  once 
smooth  face  was  wrinkled,  and  his  steps  were  slow  and 
feeble,  and  his  back  was  bent.  And  one  night  as  he  lay 
upon  his  bed,  his  children  standing  round,  he  cried,  as 
he  cried  so  long  ago,  "  I  see  the  star ! " 

They  whispered  one  another,  "He  is  dying."  And 
he  said,  "I  am.  My  age  is  falling  from  me  like  a  gar- 
ment, and  I  move  towards  the  star  as  a  child.  And,  O 
my  Father,  now  I  thank  Thee  that  it  has  so  often  opened 
to  receive  those  dear  ones  who  await  me !  " 

And  the  star  was  shining;  and  it  shines  upon  his 
grave. 

DESTEUOTION  OF  POMPEII. 

Lord  Edward  Bulwer-Lytton. 

The  cloud,  which  had  scattered  so  deep  a  murkiness 
over  the  day,  had  now  settled  into  a  solid  and  impene- 
trable mass.  It  resembled  less  even  the  thickest  gloom 
of  a  night  in  the  open  air  than  the  close  and  blind  dark- 
ness of  some  narrow  room.  But,  in  proportion  as  the 
blackness  gathered,  did  the  lightnings  around  Vesuvius 
increase  in  their  vivid  and  scorching  glare.  Nor  was 
their  horrible  beauty  confined  to  the  usual  hues  of  fire ; 
no  rainbow  ever  rivalled  their  varying  and  prodigal  dyes. 
Now  brightly  blue  as  the  most  azure  depth  of  a  southern 
sky,  —now  of  a  livid  and  snake-like  green,  darting  rest- 


10  CHOICE    READINGS. 

lessly  to  aud  fro  as  the  folds  of  an  enormous  serpent,  — 
now  of  a  lurid  and  intolerable  crimson,  gushing  forth 
through  the  columns  of  smoke,  far  and  wide,  and  light- 
ing up  the  whole  city  from  arch  to  arch,  —  then  sud- 
denly dying  into  a  sickly  paleness,  like  the  gliost  of 
their  own  life ! 

In  the  pauses  of  the  showers  you  heard  the  rumbling 
of  the  earth  beneath,  and  the  groaning  waves  of  the 
tortured  sea ;  or,  lower  still,  and  audible  but  to  the 
watch  of  intensest  fear,  the  grinding  and  hissing  mur- 
mur of  the  escaping  gases  through  the  chasms  of  the 
distant  mountain.  Sometimes  the  cloud  appeared  to 
break  from  its  solid  mass,  and,  by  the  lightning,  to 
assume  quaint  and  vast  mimicries  of  human  or  of  mon- 
ster shapes,  striding  across  the  gloom,  hurtling  one  upon 
the  other,  and  vanishing  swiftly  into  the  turbulent  abyss 
of  shade  ;  so  that,  to  the  eyes  and  fancies  of  the  affrighted 
wanderers,  the  unsubstantial  vapours  were  as  the  bodily 
forms  of  gigantic  foes,  —  the  agents  of  terror  and  death. 

The  ashes  in  many  places  were  already  knee-deep; 
and  the  boiling  showers  which  came  from  the  steaming 
breath  of  the  volcano  forced  their  way  into  the  houses, 
bearing  with  them  a  strong  and  suffocating  vapour.  In 
some  places  immense  fragments  of  rock,  hurled  upon  the 
house  roofs,  bore  down  along  the  streets  masses  of  con- 
fused ruin,  which  yet  more  and  more,  with  every  hour, 
obstructed  the  way ;  and,  as  the  day  advanced,  the 
motion  of  the  earth  was  more  sensibly  felt ;  the  footing 
seemed  to  slide  and  creep,  nor  could  chariot  or  Utter  be 
kept  steady,  even  on  the  most  level  ground. 

Sometimes  the  huger  stones,  striking  against  each 
other  as  they  fell,  broke  into  countless  fragments, 
emitting  sparks  of  fire,  which  caught  whatever  was 
combustible  within  their  reach;  and  along  the  plain 


DESTRUCTION    OP    POMPEII.  11 

beyond  the  city  the  darkness  was  now  terribly  relieved ; 
for  several  houses,  and  even  vineyards,  had  been  set  on 
flames ;  and  at  various  intervals  the  fires  rose  sullenly 
and  fiercely  against  the  solid  gloom.  To  add  to  this 
partial  relief  of  the  darkness,  the  citizens  had,  here  and 
there,  in  tlie  more  public  places,  such  as  the  porticos 
of  temples  and  the  entrances  to  the  forum,  endeavoured 
to  place  rows  of  torches ;  but  these  rarely  continued 
long;  the  showers  and  the  winds  extinguished  them, 
and  the  sudden  darkness  into  which  their  fitful  light 
was  converted  had  something  in  it  doubly  terrible  and 
doubly  impressive  on  the  impotence  of  human  hopes, 
the  lesson  of  despair. 

Frecjuently,  by  the  momentary  light  of  these  torches, 
parties  of  fugitives  encountered  each  other,  some  hur- 
rying towards  the  sea,  others  flying  from  the  sea  back  to 
the  land ;  for  the  ocean  had  retreated  rapidly  from  the 
shore ;  an  utter  darkness  lay  over  it,  and,  upon  its 
groaning  and  tossing  waves,  the  storm  of  cinders  and 
rocks  fell  without  the  protection  which  the  streets  and 
roofs  afforded  to  the  land.  Wild,  haggard,  ghastly  with 
supernatural  fears,  these  groups  encountered  each  other, 
but  without  the  leisure  to  speak,  to  consult,  to  advise  : 
for  the  showers  fell  now  frequently,  though  not  contin- 
uously, extinguishing  the  lights,  which  showed  to  each 
band  the  death-hke  faces  of  the  other,  and  hurrying  all 
to  seek  refuse  beneath  the  nearest  shelter. 

The  whole  elements  of  civihzation  were  broken  up. 
Ever  and  anon,  by  the  flickering  lights,  you  saw  the 
thief  hastening  by  the  most  solemn  authorities  of  the 
law,  laden  with,  and  fearfully  chuckling  over  the  produce 
of  his  sudden  gains.  If,  in  the  darkness,  wife  was  sepa- 
rated from  husband,  or  parent  from  child,  vain  was  the 
hope  of  reunion.     Each  hurried  blindly  and  confusedly 


12  CHOICE   READINGS. 

on.  Nothing  in  all  the  various  and  complicated  ma- 
chinery of  social  life  was  left  save  the  primal  law  of 
self-preservation. 

A  BEE-HUNT  IN  THE  PAR  WEST. 

Washington  Irving. 

We  had  not  been  long  in  the  camp  when  a  party  set 
out  in  quest  of  a  bee-tree,  and,  being  curious  to  witness 
the  sport,  I  gladly  accepted  an  invitation  to  accompany 
them.  The  party  was  headed  by  a  veteran  bee-hunter, 
a  tall,  lank  fellow  in  home-spun  garb  that  hung  loosely 
about  his  limbs,  and  a  straw  hat  shaped  not  unlike  a 
bee-hive  ;  a  comrade,  equall}'  uncouth  in  garb,  and  with- 
out a  hat,  straddled  along  at  his  heels,  with  a  long  rifle 
on  his  shoulder.  To  these  succeeded  half  a  dozen 
others,  some  with  axes  and  some  with  rifles,  for  no  one 
stirs  far  from  the  camp  without  his  firearm,  so  as  to  be 
ready  either  for  wild  deer  or  wild  Indian. 

After  proceeding  some  distance  we  came  to  an  open 
glade  on  the  skirts  of  the  forest.  Here  our  leader 
halted,  and  then  advanced  quietly  to  a  low  bush,  on 
the  top  of  which  I  perceived  a  piece  of  honey-comb. 
This  I  found  was  the  bait  or  lure  for  the  wild  bees. 
Several  were  humming  about  it,  and  diving  into  its 
cells.  When  they  had  laden  themselves  with  honey 
they  would  rise  into  the  air,  and  dart  off  in  a  straight 
line  almost  with  the  velocity  of  a  bullet.  The  hunters 
watched  attentively  the  course  they  took,  and  then  set 
off  in  the  same  direction,  stumbling  along  over  twisted 
roots  and  fallen  trees,  with  their  eyes  turned  up  to  the 
sky.  In  this  way  they  traced  the  honey-laden  bees  to 
their  hive,  in  the  hollow  trunk  of  a  blasted  oak,  where, 


A   BEE-HUNT    IN    THE    FAR    WEST.  13 

after  buzzing  about  for  a  moment,  they  entered  a  hole 
about  sixty  feet  from  the  ground. 

Two  of  the  bee-hunters  now  plied  their  axes  vigor- 
ously at  the  foot  of  the  tree,  to  level  it  with  the  ground. 
The  mere  spectators  and  amateurs,  in  the  meantime, 
drew  off  to  a  cautious  distance,  to  be  out  of  the  way  of 
the  falling  of  the  tree  and  the  vengeance  of  its  inmates. 
The  jarring  blows  of  the  axe  seemed  to  have  no  effect 
in  alarming  or  disturbing  this  most  industrious  commu- 
nity. They  continued  to  plj^  at  their  usual  occupations, 
some  arriving  full-freighted  into  port,  others  sallying 
forth  on  new  expeditions,  like  so  many  merchantmen  in 
a  money-making  metropolis,  little  suspicious  of  impend- 
ing bankruptcy  and  downfall.  Even  a  loud  crack 
which  announced  the  disrupture  of  the  trunk  failed  to 
divert  their  attention  from  the  intense  pursuit  of  gain  ; 
at  length  down  came  the  tree  with  a  tremendous  crash, 
bursting  open  from  end  to  end,  and  displaying  all  the 
hoarded  treasures  of  the  commonwealth. 

One  of  the  hunters  immediately  ran  up  with  a  wisp 
of  lighted  hay  as  a  defense  against  the  bees.  The  latter, 
however,  made  no  attack  and  sought  no  revenge ;  they 
seemed  stupefied  by  the  catastrophe  and  unsuspicious 
of  its  cause,  and  remained  crawling  and  buzzing  about 
the  ruins  without  offering  us  any  molestations.  Every 
one  of  the  party  now  fell  to,  with  spoon  and  hunting- 
knife,  to  scoop  out  the  flakes  of  honey-comb  with  which 
the  hollow  trunk  was  stored.  Some  of  them  were  of 
old  date  and  a  deep  brown  color ;  others  were  beauti- 
fully white,  and  the  honey  in  their  cells  was  almost 
limpid.  Such  of  the  combs  as  were  entire  were  placed 
in  camp-kettles,  to  be  conveyed  to  the  encampment ; 
those  which  had  been  shivered  in  the  fall  were  devoured 
upon  the  spot.     Every  stark  bee-hunter  was  to  be  seen 


u 


ruou  I    ici  vi'iN»;.< 


wltli  n  violi  u\(M'Sol  ui  lus  iiaml,  vIiu'jmu^^-  i»l>»>»u  his 
tiugvvs,  }uul  vUsuppourin^^'us  lapuUv  us  u  rvoiuu  tavt  ho- 
t\)W  tho  hol'ulav  uppotito  v>t"  a  si^lnn>l-l>v\v. 

Nor  WHS  it  {\\o  l>t>o-lmutors  uloiu^  thai  piolih  *l  h\  (lu> 
(l.'wntall  of  this  iiulustvious  rouuuuiutv  ;  as  iftht^  hot^s 
wouUl  lanv  thioui;h  [\\o  similitiuU'  of  ihtnr  habits  with 
thost'  ot"  l.ilH'vious  aiul  guiiirul  man.  I  hrhrKl  luim 
biMs  tVom  rival  hivt'S  urriviuj^"  on  t^a^vM-  wiui;',  to  »MU'ii'h 
ihiMusi'U  i>s  with  I  ho  ruins  of  thoir  nt<ii;hhours.  '^host^ 
hnsit'il  (htMusolvt^s  us  ou^'tM'lv  and  rht>tMrnllv  as  so  inanv 
wrtH'kois  on  an  Indiaiuan  that  has  ho(Muh'iv»M»  »>n  shoro  ; 
plnui^ini';  niio  (ho  it^lls  »>!"  tho  hroKiMi  hom\\'  (MMnhs, 
l«,m.|Uoi  in;';  !'aoo(lil\  on  (ho  spoil,  and  (lion  win^ini^ 
ilioir  \\,i\  lull  lVol>',hioil  to  (lu'ir  homos.  As  to  [\w  ptnu' 
piopiuMors  (if  ilio  rnm,  (lioN  ^uHMn^Hl  to  havo  n»>  hoart  to 
Ao  anv  thin;';,  ni«(  c\r\\  (o  las(o  (ho  nov'tar  that  llowod 
aronml  llioni;  luil  ciawloil  l>aoU  waithi  and  liuwanlM,  in 
vaoant  »losolation,  as  I  ha\o  s»>on  a  pt>or  follow  \\i(h  his 
hamls  1m  his  poi^kots,  whisllini;-  vaoanlh  and  dos|>ond 
injdv  ahoni   llu>  ^nin^;  (d' his  honsi^  thai   had   hoon    Imint. 

It.  is  ditVionlt  toch'soriho  tlu*  h(>\\  ildoniiont  and  <'oMi"ii 
sion    of  {\w    hoos  td'  thi^  hankrupt    hivo  who    had    hooii 
ahsont  al   tho    tinu-ol"(lu«   oatasi  ropho,  and  who   anaNcd 
from   timo  to  (in\o   wiih    lull   oargoi^s   iVom   aluoad.      Al 
lii'st    thov  wht-olod    ahonI   in  I  ho   air,  in    tho    placo  whoio 
lh(>  t'allon  1 1'0(^   had    onoo    roai'od    ils   hoad,  nsttmishod    at. 
limlim;-  it.  nil  a.  vaonum.       Al    lonj-lh,  as   if  oomprohond 
in^'  thoif  disastor,  Ihoy  sotllod  dow  n  in  olustt'rH  on  a  dry 
hranoh  iA'  a    noii^hhourinj^'  In-o,  whonoo   th(»v  Hoomod  In 
oonlomplalo  tho  |)ros|.ra.to    rnin,  and  lo  l>n,'/.    foilh    dolo 
ful  laniontations  ovt>r  tho  (h>w  nfall  of  Ihi'ir  ropnhliii. 


A  <;«»oi»  «;«>nh<;u<;n<'ic.  16 

A    nO(JJ)   (JONHOIENOE, 

My  Miirxl  1,0  UK'  u  kiiiji'loifi  is; 

Sii<;li  jM'iffct,  joy  llii'K'iii  I  fln«] 
Ah  far  <;x<!(M!(Ih  nil  (•;iillil)  hliHH, 

'riiui  ^Jo(|  or  Nutiii'f!  Ii;il,li  uHni^nM  : 
'riioiijj^li  iiiikIi  I  vviiiif,,  IJiiil,  miohI,  woiiM  Iih,v<!, 
Y«^t  hUII  )ny  iiiiiifl  loiltiflH  iAt  <'i;i,v«*. 

(!oiil,ciil,  I  live,  l.liiM  in  my  Hl.n,y  ; 

I  HiM'K  MO  iiioK'  iJi.-iii  limy  HiiMlct! : 
I  prcrtK  1,0  hciir  110  liii,ii}j;lily  Hwiiy  ; 

l,oo|{,  wliiil/  I  Ijk'K,  Hiy  iiiIikI  «(i|i|)li<'H. 
\a>  !   iJiim  I  l,i'iiiiti|ili  lilvi*  II  liiii;^, 
(!<»iil,<'iil,  willi  wliiil,  lll^   iniiifl  flolli  liiiiij^. 

I  M«u»  how  itlfiily  hiiilVil^i  oil, 

An<l  liiiHly  ('liiiilit'i>i  kooiichI,  I'nJI ; 

I   Mcc  iJliil,  MiK'li  iif^  ;  il   niol'l, 

MiHliM|i  (lolli  llirciilcii  iii(»hI,  of  III!  : 
'I'hcHc  ^rl  Willi  Toil,  JiiKJ  l<<'('|»  Willi  (Viir; 
SiK'li  riircH  my  miinl  <<tiil<l  ikvi  r  Im-iii'. 

Soiiif  li!iv«'  l.o.»  iiiiK-li,  y<'l,  Hlill  Uicy  cnivc  ; 

I  lilll.'  liiiA'i',  yd  HCcK  no  iik/ic  : 
'rin\   :in'  IhiI,  poor,  llioiijjii  iiim-li  Uii-y  liiivo  ■ 

Ami  I  ;iiii  li'h  wiili  lilll''  slorc  : 
Tlit-y  |»<.«.r,  I  rirh  ;   llicy  l»c^,  I  n'vi' ; 
TUvy  liu'k,  I  U'ikI  ;  lln-y  pine,  I  live. 

I  liui^i;li  nol<  lit  iui<»IIu'i'h  I(»hs, 

I  •jriKJ^M^  iiol,  III,  iiiiollit'r'H  }j;ii,iii ; 
No  \voil(ll\   \v!i,\c  mv  iiiimi  ciiii  toHH, 

I  |.i<H.k  wliiil,  is  jiiiollM-r'H  liiiiu', : 
I  li!ir  110  foe,  nor  ravvii  011  rricml  : 
I  Idiilhr  m»|,  lil'f,  nor  (\\i:\<\  my  ••iid. 


16  CHOICE   READINGS. 

I  wish  but  what  I  have  at  will ; 

I  wander  not  to  seek  for  more  ; 
I  like  the  plain,  I  climb  no  hill : 

In  greater  storms  I  sit  on  shore, 
And  laugh  at  them  that  toil  in  vain 
To  get  what  must  be  lost  again. 

I  kiss  not  where  I  wish  to  kill ; 

I  feign  not  love  where  most  I  hate  ; 
I  break  no  sleep  to  win  m}'  will ; 

I  wait  not  at  the  mighty's  gate  ; 
I  scorn  no  poor,  I  fear  no.  rich ; 
I  feel  no  want,  nor  have  too  much. 

My  wealth  is  health  and  perfect  ease ; 

My  conscience  clear  my  chief  defence 
I  never  seek  by  bribes  to  please, 

Nor  by  desert  to  give  offence. 
Thus  do  I  live,  thus  will  I  die  ; 
Would  all  did  live  so  well  as  I ! 


ELEGY  WEITTEN  IN  A  OOUNTKY  OHUKOHYAED. 

Thomas  Gray. 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day, 
The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o'er  the  lea. 
The  ploughman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight, 
And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 
Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 
And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds ; 

Save  that,  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower, 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  Moon  complain 
Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret  bower, 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 


ELEGY    WRITTEN    IN    A    COUNTRY    CHURCHYARD.  17 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade, 
Where  heaves  the  turf  iu  man}'  a  mouldering  heap, 
Each  in  his  narrow  cell  for  ever  laid, 
The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

The  breez}'  call  of  incense-breathing  morn, 
The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw -built  shed, 
The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn, 
Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care  ; 
No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 
Or  climb  his  knees,  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield, 
Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke; 
How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield  ! 
How  bow'd  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke  ! 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  home!}'  joys  and  destiny  obscure  ; 
Nor  Grandeur  bear  with  a  disdainful  smile 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power, 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave, 
Await  alike  th'  inevitable  hour  :  — 
The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault, 
If  memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise. 
Where  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted  vault 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 

Can  storied  urn  or  animated  bust 
Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath? 
Can  Honour's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust. 
Or  Flattery  soothe  the  dull,  cold  ear  of  Death? 


18  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 
Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire  ; 
Hands  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  sway'd, 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre. 

But  Knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page, 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time,  did  ne'er  unroll; 
Chill  Penury  repress'd  their  noble  rage, 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ra}'  serene 
The  dark,  unfathom'd  caves  of  ocean  bear; 
Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

Some  village  Hampden,  that  with  dauntless  breast 
The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood, 
Some  mute,  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest ; 
Some  Cromwell,  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood. 

Th'  applause  of  listening  senates  to  command, 
The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise. 
To  scatter  plent}-  o'er  a  smiling  land. 
And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes, 

Their  lot  forbade  ;  nor  circumscribed  alone 
Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confined ; 
Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne, 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind ; 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide. 
To  quench  tlie  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame. 
Or  heap  the  shrine  of  luxury  and  pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's  flame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife. 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learn 'd  to  stray  ; 
Along  the  cool,  sequester'd  vale  of  life 
They  kept  the  noiseless  tenour  of  their  way. 


ELEGY   WRITTEN   IN   A   COUNTRY   CHURCHYARD.  19 

Yet  e'en  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect, 

Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 

With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture  deck'd, 

Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

Their  names,  their  j-ears,  spelt  by  th'  unletter'd  Muse, 
The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply ; 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews, 
That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who,  to  dumb  forgetfulness  a  prey, 
Their  pleasing,  anxious  being  e'er  resign'd. 
Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 
Nor  cast  one  longing,  lingering  look  behind  ? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies. 
Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires  ; 
E'en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  Nature  cries. 
E'en  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

For  thee,  who,  mindful  of  th'  unhonour'd  dead. 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate. 
If,  'chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led. 
Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate,  — 

Haply  some  hoarj'-headed  swain  may  say, 
"  Oft  have  we  seen  him,  at  the  peep  of  dawn, 
Brushing  with  hast}'  steps  the  dews  away, 
To  meet  the  Sun  upon  the  upland  lawn. 

There,  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech 
That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high. 
His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch, 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

Hard  by  j'on  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn, 
Muttering  his  wayward  fancies,  he  would  rove. 
Now  drooping,  woeful-wan,  like  one  forlorn, 
Or  crazed  with  care,  or  cross'd  in  hopeless  love. 


20  CHOICE    READINGS. 

One  morn  I  miss'd  him  on  the  custom'd  hill, 
Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  favourite  tree : 
Another  came  ;  nor  yet  beside  the  rill, 
Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was  he : 

The  next,  with  dirges  due,  in  sad  array, 
Slow  through  the  churchwa3'-path  we  saw  him  borne. 
Approach,  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read)  the  lay 
Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  ag^d  thorn." 

There  scatter'd  oft,  the  earliest  of  the  3'ear, 
B}-  hands  unseen,  are  showers  of  violets  found  ; 
The  redbreast  loves  to  build  and  warble  there. 
And  little  footsteps  lightly  print  the  ground. 

THE    EPITAPH. 

Here  rests  his  head,  upon  the  lap  of  Earth, 
A  youth  to  fortune  and  to  fame  unknown  ; 
Fair  Science  frown'd  not  on  his  humble  birth, 
And  Melancholy  mark'd  him  for  her  own. 

Large  was  his  bountj',  and  his  soul  sincere  ; 

Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send : 

He  gave  to  miser}-,  all  he  had,  a  tear,  — 

He  gain'd  from  Heaven  ('twas  all  he  wish'd)  a  friend. 

No  further  seek  his  merits  to  disclose. 
Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode, 
(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose,) 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 

THE  riEST   SETTLEE'S  STOKY. 

Will  Carleton. 

Well,  when  I  first  infested  this  retreat. 
Things  to  my  view  look'd  frightful  incomplete  ; 
But  I  had  come  with  heart-thrift  in  my  song, 
And  brought  my  wife  and  plunder  right  along ; 


THE    FIRST    settler's    STORY.  21 

I  hadn't  a  round-trip  ticket  to  go  back, 
And  if  I  had  there  was  no  railroad  track ; 
And  drivin'  East  was  what  I  couldn't  endure : 
I  hadn't  started  on  a  circular  tour. 

My  girl-wife  was  as  brave  as  she  was  good, 
And  help'd  me  every  blessed  way  she  could ; 
She  seem'd  to  take  to  every  rough  old  tree. 
As  sing'lar  as  when  first  she  took  to  me. 
She  kep'  our  little  log-house  neat  as  wax. 
And  once  I  caught  her  fooling  with  my  axe. 
She  hadn't  the  muscle  (though  she  had  the  heart) 
In  out-door  work  to  take  an  active  part ; 
She  was  delicious,  both  to  hear  and  see,  — 
That  pretty  girl-wife  that  kep'  house  for  me. 

Well,  neighbourhoods  meant  counties  in  those  days  ; 
The  roads  didn't  have  accommodating  ways  ; 
And  ma3'be  weeks  would  pass  before  she'd  see  — 
And  much  less  talk  witli  —  any  one  but  me. 
The  Indians  sometimes  show'd  tlieir  sun-baked  faces, 
But  they  didn't  teem  with  conversational  graces  ; 
Some  ideas  from  the  birds  and  trees  she  stole. 
But  'twasn't  like  talking  with  a  human  soul ; 
And  finally  I  thought  that  I  could  trace 
A  half  heart-hunger  peering  from  her  face. 

One  night,  when  I  came  home  unusual  late, 
Too  hungry  and  too  tired  to  feel  first-rate, 
Her  supper  struck  me  wrong,  (thougli  I'll  allow 
She  hadn't  much  to  strike  with,  anyhow)  ; 
And,  when  I  went  to  milk  the  cows,  and  found 
They'd  wander'd  from  their  usual  feeding  ground, 
And  maybe'd  left  a  few  long  miles  behind  'em. 
Which  I  must  copy,  if  I  meant  to  find  'em. 
Flash-quick  the  stay-chains  of  my  temper  broke. 
And  in  a  trice  these  hot  words  I  had  spoke : 


22  CHOICE    READINGS. 

"  You  ought  to've  kept  the  animals  in  view, 
And  drove  'em  in  ;  you'd  nothing  else  to  do. 
The  heft  of  all  our  life  on  me  must  fall ; 
You  just  lie  round,  and  let  me  do  it  all." 

That  speech,  —  it  hadn't  been  gone  a  half  a  minute 
Before  I  saw  the  cold  black  poison  in  it ; 
And  I'd  have  given  all  I  had,  and  more, 
To've  only  safely  got  it  back  in-door. 
I'm  now  what  most  folks  "  well-to-do"  would  call : 
I  feel  to-day  as  if  I'd  give  it  all. 
Provided  I  through  fifty  years  might  reach 
And  kill  and  bury  that  half-minute  speech. 

She  handed  back  no  words,  as  I  could  hear ; 
She  didn't  frown  ;  she  didn't  shed  a  tear ; 
Half  proud,  half  crush'd,  she  stood  and  look'd  me  o'er, 
Like  some  one  she  had  never  seen  before  ! 
But  such  a  sudden  anguish-lit  surprise 
I  never  view'd  before  in  human  eyes. 
(I've  seen  it  oft  enough  since  in  a  dream ; 
It  sometimes  wakes  me  like  a  midnight  scream.) 

Next  morning,  when,  stone-faced  but  heav3^-hearted, 
With  dinner-pail  and  sharpen'd  axe  1  started 
Away  for  ray  day's  work,  she  watch'd  the  door. 
And  follow'd  me  half  wa^'  to  it  or  more ; 
And  I  was  just  a-turning  round  at  this. 
And  asking  for  my  usual  good-by  kiss  ; 
But  on  her  lip  I  saw  a  proudish  curve, 
And  in  her  eye  a  shadow  of  reserve  ; 
And  she  had  shown  —  perhaps  half  unawares — 
Some  little  independent  breakfast  airs  ; 
And  so  the  usual  pai'ting  didn't  occur. 
Although  her  eyes  invited  me  to  her  ; 
Or  rather  half  invited  me,  for  she 
Didn't  advertise  to  furnish  kisses  free  : 


THE    FIRST    settler's    STORY.  23 

You  always  had  —  that  is,  I  had  —  to  pay 

Full  market  price,  and  go  more'n  half  the  way. 

So,  with  a  short  "  Good-bye,"  I  shut  the  door, 

And  left  her  as  I  never  had  before. 

But,  when  at  noon  my  lunch  I  came  to  eat. 

Put  up  by  her  so  delicately  neat,  — 

Choicer,  somewhat,  than  yesterdaj's  had  been. 

And  some  fresh,  sweet-eyed  pansies  she'd  put  in,  — 

"  Tender  and  pleasant  thoughts,"  I  knew  they  meant,— 

It  seem'd  as  if  her  kiss  with  me  she'd  sent ; 

Then  I  became  once  more  her  humble  lover, 

And  said,  "  To-night  I'll  ask  forgiveness  of  her." 

I  went  home  over-early  on  that  eve, 
Having  contrived  to  make  myself  believe. 
By  various  signs  I  kind  o'  knew  and  guess'd, 
A  thunder-storm  was  coming  from  the  west. 
('Tis  strange,  when  one  sly  reason  fills  the  heart. 
How  many  honest  ones  will  take  its  part  : 
A  dozen  first-class  reasons  said  'twas  right 
That  I  should  strike  home  earl}'  on  that  night.) 

Half  out  of  breath,  the  cabin  door  I  swung, 
"With  tender  heart-words  trembling  on  my  tongue  ; 
But  all  within  look'd  desolate  and  bare : 
My  house  had  lost  its  soul,  — she  was  not  there  ! 
A  pencil'd  note  was  on  the  table  spread, 
And  these  are  something  like  the  words  it  said  : 
"  The  cows  have  stra3''d  away  again,  I  fear  ; 
I  watch'd  them  pretty  close  ;  don't  scold  me,  dear. 
And  where  they  are  I  think  I  nearly  know ; 
I  heard  the  bell  not  very  long  ago. 
I've  hunted  for  them  all  the  afternoon ; 
I'll  try  once  more,  —I  think  I'll  find  them  soon. 
Dear,  if  a  burden  I  have  been  to  you. 
And  haven't  help'd  you  as  I  ought  to  do, 
Let  old-time  memories  my  forgiveness  plead  ; 
I've  tried  to  do  my  best,  —  I  have,  indeed. 


24  CHOICE   READINGS. 

Darling,  piece  out  with  love  the  strength  I  lack, 
And  have  kind  words  forme  when  I  get  back." 

Scarce  did  I  give  this  letter  sight  and  tongue,  — 
Some  swift-blown  rain-drops  to  the  window  clung. 
And  from  the  clouds  a  rough,  deep  growl  proceeded  : 
My  thunder-storm  had  come,  now  'twasn't  needed. 
I  rush'd  out-door.     The  air  was  stain'd  with  black  : 
Night  had  come  early,  on  the  storm-cloud's  back : 
And  every  thing  kept  dimming  to  the  sight. 
Save  when  the  clouds  threw  their  electric  light ; 
When,  for  a  flash,  so  clean-cut  was  the  view, 
I'd  think  I  saw  her,  —  knowing  'twas  not  true. 
Through  mj'  small  clearing  dash'd  wide  sheets  of  spray, 
As  if  the  ocean  waves  had  lost  their  way  ; 
Scarcely  a  pause  the  thunder-battle  made. 
In  the  bold  clamour  of  its  cannonade. 
And  she,  while  I  was  shelter'd,  dry,  and  warm, 
Was  somewhere  in  the  clutches  of  this  storm  ! 
She  who,  when  storm -frights  found  her  at  her  best. 
Had  always  hid  her  white  face  on  my  breast ! 

My  dog,  who'd  skirmish'd  round  me  all  the  day. 
Now  crouch'd  and  whimpering,  in  a  corner  lay  ; 
I  dragg'd  him  by  the  collar  to  the  wall, 
I  press'd  his  quivering  muzzle  to  a  shawl,  — 
"  Track  her,  old  boy  !  "  I  shouted  ;  and  he  whined, 
Match'd  eyes  with  me,  as  if  to  read  my  mind, 
Then  with  a  yell  went  tearing  through  the  wood. 
I  follow'd  him,  as  faithful  as  I  could. 
No  pleasure-trip  was  that,  through  flood  and  flame  ; 
We  raced  with  death  ;  we  hunted  noble  game. 
All  night  we  dragg'd  the  woods  without  avail ; 
The  ground  gotdrench'd,  — we  could  not  keep  the  trail 
Three  times  again  my  cabin  home  I  found. 
Half  hoping  she  might  be  there,  safe  and  sound  ; 
But  each  time  'twas  an  unavailing  care  : 
My  house  had  lost  its  soul ;  she  was  not  there ! 


THE    FIRST    settler's    STORY.  25 

When,  climbing  the  wet  trees,  next  morning-sun 
Laugh'd  at  the  ruin  that  the  night  had  done, 
Bleeding  and  drench'd,  by  toil  and  sorrow  bent, 
Back  to  what  used  to  be  my  home  I  went. 
But,  as  I  near'd  our  little  clearing-ground,  — 
Listen  !  —  I  heard  the  cow-bell's  tinkling  sound. 
The  cabin  door  was  just  a  bit  ajar ; 
It  gleam' d  upon  my  glad  eyes  like  a  star. 
"  Brave  heart,"  I  said,  ^'  for  such  a  fragile  form  ! 
She  made  them  guide  her  homeward  through  the  storm  !  " 
Such  pangs  of  joy  I  never  felt  before. 
"  You've  come  !  "  I  shouted,  and  rush'd  through  the  door. 

Yes,  she  had  come,  —  and  gone  again.     She  lay 
With  all  her  young  life  crnsh'd  and  wrench'd  away, — 
Lay,  the  heart-ruins  of  our  home  among. 
Not  far  from  where  I  kill'd  her  with  my  tongue. 
The  rain-drops  glitter'd  'mid  her  hair's  long  strands. 
The  forest  thorns  had  torn  her  feet  and  hands. 
And  'midst  the  tears  —brave  tears  —  that  one  could  trace 
Upon  the  pale  but  sweetly  resolute  face, 
I  once  again  the  mournful  words  could  read, 
"  I've  tried  to  do  my  best,  —  I  have,  indeed." 

And  now  I'm  mostly  done  ;  my  story's  o'er ; 
Part  of  it  never  breathed  the  air  before. 
'Tisn't  over-usual,  it  must  be  allow'd. 
To  volunteer  heart-story  to  a  crowd. 
And  scatter  'mongst  them  confidential  tears, 
But  you'll  protect  an  old  man  with  his  years ; 
And  wheresoe'er  this  story's  voice  can  reach, 
This  is  the  sermon  I  would  have  it  preach : 

Boys  flying  kites  haul  in  their  white-wing'd  birds : 
You  can't  do  that  way  when  you're  flying  words. 
"  Careful  with  fire,"  is  good  advice  we  know  : 
"  Careful  with  words,"  is  ten  times  doubly  so. 


26  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Thoughts  unexpress'd  may  sometimes  fall  back  dead, 
But  God  himself  can't  kill  them  wheu  they're  said  ! 
You  have  my  Ufe-grief  :  do  uot  thmk  a  minute 
'Twas  told  to  take  up  time.     There's  business  in  it. 
It  sheds  advice  :  whoe'er  will  take  and  live  it, 
Is  welcome  to  the  pain  it  costs  to  give  it. 


THE  BLIND  PIDDLEE. 

WiLUAM  Wordsworth. 

An  Orpheus !  an  Orpheus  !     Yes,  Faith  may  grow  bold, 
And  take  to  herself  all  the  wonders  of  old  ;  — 
Near  the  stately  Pantheon  you'll  meet  with  the  same, 
In  the  street  that  from  Oxford  hath  borrow'd  its  name. 

His  station  is  there  ;  and  he  works  on  the  crowd. 
He  sways  them  with  harmony  merry  and  loud  ; 
He  fills  with  his  power  all  their  hearts  to  the  brim,  — 
Was  aught  ever  heard  like  his  fiddle  and  him  ? 

What  an  eager  assembly  !  what  an  empire  is  this ! 
The  weary  have  life,  and  the  hungry  have  bliss ; 
The  mourner  is  cheer'd,  and  the  anxious  have  rest ; 
And  the  guilt-burthen'd  soul  is  no  longer  opprest. 

As  the  Moon  brightens  round  her  the  clouds  of  the  night, 
So  he,  where  he  stands,  is  a  centre  of  light ; 
It  gleams  on  the  face,  there,  of  dusky-brow'd  Jack, 
And  tiie  pale-visaged  Baker's,  with  basket  on  back. 

That  errand-bound  'Prentice  was  passing  in  haste,  — 
What  matter !  he's  caught,  and  his  time  runs  to  waste  ; 
The  Newsman  is  stopp'd,  though  he  stops  on  the  fret ; 
And  the  half-breathless  Lamplighter,  he's  in  the  net ! 

The  Porter  sits  down  on  the  weight  which  he  bore ; 
The  Lass  with  her  barrow  wheels  hither  her  store ;  — 


THE    BLIND    FIDDLER.  27 

If  a  thief  could  be  here  he  might  pilfer  at  ease  ; 
She  sees  the  Musician,  'tis  all  that  she  sees  ! 

He  stands,  back'd  by  the  wall ;  —  he  abates  not  his  din  ; 
His  hat  gives  him  vigour,  with  boons  dropping  in, 
From  the  old  and  the  young,  from  the  poorest ;  and  there ! 
The  oue-pennied  Boy  has  his  penny  to  spare. 

O,  blest  are  the  hearers,  and  proud  be  the  hand 

Of  the  pleasure  it  spreads  through  so  thankful  a  band  ; 

1  am  glad  for  him,  blind  as  he  is  !  —  all  the  while 

If  the}'  speak,  'tis  to  praise,  and  they  praise  with  a  smile. 

That  tall  Man,  a  giant  in  bulk  and  in  height, 
Not  an  inch  of  his  body  is  free  from  delight ; 
Can  he  keep  himself  still,  if  he  would?     O,  not  he  ! 
The  music  stirs  in  him  like  wind  through  a  tree. 

Mark  that  Cripple  who  leans  on  his  crutch  ;  like  a  tower 
That  long  has  lean'd  forward,  leans  hour  after  hour !  — 
That  Mother,  whose  spirit  in  fetters  is  bound. 
While  she  dandles  the  Babe  in  her  arms  to  the  sound. 

Now,  coaches  and  chariots  !  roar  on  like  a  stream  ; 
Here  are  twenty  souls  happy  as  souls  in  a  dream : 
They  are  deaf  to  your  murmurs,  —  they  care  not  for  you, 
Nor  what  ye  are  flying,  nor  what  ye  pursue  ! 

HISTOEY. 

James  Anthony  Froude. 

At  the  dawn  of  civilization,  when  men  began  to  ob- 
serve and  tliink,  they  found  themselves  in  possession  of 
various  faculties,  —  first  their  five  senses,  and  then  im- 
agination, fancy,  reason,  and  memory.  They  did  not 
distinguish  one  from  the  other.  They  did  not  know 
why  one  idea  of  which  they  were  conscious  should  be 
more  true  than  another.  They  looked  round  them  in 
continual  surprise,  conjecturing  fantastic  explanations 


28  CHOICE    READINGS. 

of  all  they  saw  and  heard.  Their  traditions  and  their 
theories  blended  one  into  another,  and  their  cosmogonies, 
their  philosophies,  and  their  histories  are  all  alike  imag- 
inative and  poetical.  It  was  never  perhaps  seriously 
believed  as  a  scientific  reality  that  the  Sun  was  the 
chariot  of  Apollo,  or  that  Saturn  had  devoured  his  chil- 
dren, or  that  Siegfred  had  been  bathed  in  the  dragon's 
blood,  or  that  earthquakes  and  volcanoes  were  caused 
by  buried  giants,  who  were  snorting  and  tossing  in  tlieir 
sleep ;  but  also  it  was  not  disbelieved. 

The  original  historian  and  the  original  man  of  science 
was  alike  the  poet.  Before  the  art  of  writing  was  in- 
vented, exact  knowledge  was  impossible.  The  poet's 
business  was  to  throw  into  beautiful  shapes  the  current 
opinions,  traditions,  and  beliefs ;  and  the  gifts  required 
of  him  were  simply  memory,  imagination,  and  music. 
Each  celebrated  minstrel  sang  his  stories  in  liis  own  way, 
adding  to  them,  shaping  them,  colouring  them,  as  suited 
his  peculiar  genius.  The  Iliad  of  Homer,  the  most 
splendid  composition  of  this  kind  which  exists  in  the 
world,  is  simply  a  collection  of  ballads.  The  tale  of 
Troy  was  the  heroic  story  of  Greece,  wliich  every  tribe 
modified  or  re-arranged. 

The  chronicler  is  not  a  poet  like  liis  predecessor.  He 
does  not  shape  out  consistent  pictures  with  a  beginning, 
a  middle,  and  an  end.  He  is  a  narrator  of  events  and  lie 
connects  them  on  a  chronological  string.  He  professes 
to  be  relating  facts.  He  is  not  idealizing;  he  is  not 
singing  the  praises  of  heroes ;  he  means  to  be  true  in  the 
literal  and  commonplace  sense  of  that  ambiguous  word. 

Neither  history  nor  any  other  knowledge  can  be  ob- 
tained except  by  scientific  methods.  A  constructive 
philosophy  of  it,  however,  is  as  yet  impossible,  and  for 
the  present,  and  for  a  long  time  to  come,  we  shall  be 


CHRISTMAS    EVE    IN    THE    OLDEN    TIME.  29 

confined  to  analysis.  First  one  cause  and  then  another 
has  interfered  from  the  beginning  of  time  with  a  correct 
and  authentic  chronicling  of  events  and  actions.  Super- 
stition, hero-worship,  ignorance  of  the  laws  of  probabil- 
ity, religious,  political,  or  speculative  prejudice,  —  one 
or  other  of  these  has  tended  from  the  beginning  to  give 
us  distorted  pictures. 

The  most  perfect  English  history  which  exists  is  to 
be  found,  in  my  opinion,  in  the  historical  plays  of  Shake- 
speare. In  these  plays,  rich  as  they  are  in  fancy  and 
imagination,  the  main  bearings  of  the  national  story  are 
scrupulously  adhered  to,  and,  whenever  attainable,  with 
verbal  correctness.  Shakespeare's  object  was  to  exliibit 
as  faithfully  as  he  possibly  could  the  exact  character  of 
the  great  actors  in  the  national  drama,  the  circumstances 
which  attended  them,  and  the  motives,  internal  and 
external,  by  wliich  they  were  influenced.  Shakespeare's 
attitude  towards  human  life  will  become  again  attaina- 
ble to  us  only  when  intelligent  people  can  return  to  an 
agreement  on  first  principles ;  when  the  common  sense 
of  the  wisest  and  best  among  us  has  superseded  the 
theorizing  of  parties  and  factions ;  when  the  few  but  all- 
important  truths  of  our  moral  condition,  which  can  be 
certainly  known,  have  become  the  exclusive  rule  of  our 
judgments  and  actions. 

OHEISTMAS  EVE  IN  THE   OLDEN   TIME. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 

Heap  on  more  wood  !  —  The  wind  is  chill ; 
But,  let  it  whistle  as  it  will, 
We'll  keep  our  merry  Christmas  still : 
Each  age  has  deem'd  the  new-born  year 
The  fittest  time  for  festal  cheer. 


30  CHOICE     READINGS. 

And  well  our  Christian  sires  of  old 
Loved  when  the  year  its  course  had  roll'd, 
And  brought  blithe  Christmas  back  again, 
With  all  his  hospitable  train. 
Domestic  and  religious  rite 
Gave  honour  to  the  holy  night : 
On  Christmas  eve  the  bells  were  rung ; 
On  Christmas  eve  the  Mass  was  sung ; 
The  only  night,  in  all  the  year, 
Saw  the  stoled  priest  the  chalice  rear. 
The  damsel  donn'd  her  kirtle  sheen  ; 
The  hall  was  dress'd  with  holly  green  ; 
Forth  to  the  wood  did  merr}'  men  go, 
To  gather  in  the  mistletoe. 

Then  open'd  wide  the  Baron's  hall 
To  vassal,  tenant,  serf,  and  all ; 
Power  laid  his  rod  of  rule  aside, 
And  Ceremony  doff'd  her  pride. 
The  heir,  with  roses  iu  his  shoes. 
That  night  might  village  partner  choose ; 
The  lord,  underogating,  share 
The  regular  game  of  '•'•  Past  and  Pair." 
All  hail'd,  with  uncontroll'd  delight 
And  general  voice,  the  happy  night. 
That  to  the  cottage,  as  the  Crown, 
Brought  tidings  of  salvation  down. 

The  fire,  with  well-dried  logs  supplied, 
Went  roaring  up  the  chimney  wide  ; 
The  huge  hall-table's  oaken  face, 
Scrubb'd  till  it  shone,  the  day  to  grace, 
Bore  then  upon  its  massive  board 
No  marks  to  part  the  squire  and  lord. 
Then  was  brought  in  the  lust}-  brawn, 
By  old  blue-coated  serving-man  ; 
Then  tlie  grim  boar's-head  frown'd  on  high, 
Crested  with  bays  and  rosemary. 


NO    SECTS    IN    HEAVEN.  31 

"Well  can  the  green-garb'd  ranger  tell 
HoAv,  when,  and  where  the  monster  fell; 
What  dogs  before  his  death  he  tore, 
And  all  the  baiting  of  the  boar. 

The  vassal  round,  in  good  brown  bowls 
Garnish'd  with  ribbons,  blithely  trowls. 
There  the  huge  surloin  reek'd  ;  hard  by 
Plum-porridge  stood,  and  Christmas  pie  ; 
Nor  fail'd  old  Scotland  to  produce, 
At  such  high  tide,  her  savoury  goose. 
Then  came  the  merry  masquers  in, 
And  carols  roar'd  with  blithesome  din ; 
If  unmelodious  was  the  song, 
It  was  a  heart}'  note,  and  strong. 

Who  lists  may  in  their  murmuring  see 
Traces  of  ancient  mystery  : 
White  shirts  supplied  the  masquerade, 
And  smutted  cheeks  the  visors  made  ; 
But,  0,  what  masquers,  richlj'  dight, 
Can  boast  of  bosoms  half  so  light ! 
England  was  merry  England,  when 
Old  Christmas  brought  his  sports  again. 
'Twas  Christmas  broach'd  the  mightiest  ale, 
'Twas  Christmas  told  the  merriest  tale  ; 
A  Christmas  gambol  oft  could  cheer 
The  poor  man's  heart  through  half  the  year. 

NO   SECTS   IN  HEAVEN. 

Mrs.  E.  H.  J.  Cleaveland. 

Talking  of  sects  till  late  one  eve, 
Of  the  various  doctrines  the  saints  believe, 
That  night  I  stood,  in  a  troubled  dream, 
By  the  side  of  a  darkly  flowing  stream. 


32  CHOICE    READINGS. 

And  a  Churchman  down  to  the  river  came  ; 
When  I  heard  a  strange  voice  call  his  name, 
"  Good  father,  stop ;  when  you  cross  this  tide, 
You  must  leave  your  robes  on  the  other  side." 

But  the  aged  father  did  not  mind ; 
And  his  long  gown  floated  out  behind, 
As  down  to  the  stream  his  way  he  took, 
His  pale  hands  clasping  a  gilt-edged  book  r 

"  I'm  bound  for  Heaven ;  and,  when  I'm  there, 
Shall  want  my  Book  of  Common  Prayer ; 
And,  though  I  put  on  a  starry  crown, 
I  should  feel  quite  lost  without  my  gown." 

Then  he  fix'd  his  eyes  on  the  shining  track, 
But  his  gown  was  heavy  and  held  him  back. 
And  the  poor  old  father  tried  in  vain 
A  single  step  in  the  flood  to  gain. 

I  saw  him  again  on  the  other  side, 
But  his  silk  gown  floated  on  the  tide ; 
And  no  one  ask'd,  in  that  blissful  spot, 
Whether  he  belong'd  to  "/Ae  Church  "  or  not. 

Then  down  to  the  river  a  Quaker  stray'd ; 
His  dress  of  a  sober  hue  was  made  : 
"  My  coat  and  hat  must  all  be  gray,  — 
I  cannot  go  any  other  way." 

Then  he  button'd  his  coat  straight  up  to  his  chiOf 
And  staidly,  solemnly,  waded  in, 
And  his  broad-brim m'd  hat  he  pull'd  down  tight, 
Over  his  forehead  so  cold  and  white. 

But  a  strong  wind  carried  away  his  hat ; 
A  moment  he  silently  sigh'd  over  that ; 
And  then,  as  he  gazed  on  the  further  shore. 
His  coat  slipp'd  off,  and  was  seen  no  more ; 

As  he  enter'd  Heaven,  his  suit  of  gray 
Went  quietly,  sailing,  away,  away ; 
And  none  of  the  angels  question'd  him 
About  the  width  of  his  beaver's  brim. 

Next  came  Dr.  Watts,  with  a  bundle  of  psalms 

Tied  nicely  up  in  his  aged  arms. 

And  hymns  as  many,  —  a  very  wise  thing,  — 

That  the  people  in  Heaven,  "  aU  round,"  might  sing. 


NO   SECTS    IN   HEAVEN.  33 

But  I  thought  that  he  heaved  an  anxious  sigh, 
"When  he  saw  that  the  river  ran  broad  and  high. 
And  look'd  rather  surprised,  as  one  by  one 
The  psalms  and  hymns  in  the  wave  went  down. 

And  after  him,  with  his  MSS., 

Came  "Wesley,  the  pattern  of  godliness ; 

But  he  cried,  "  Dear  me !  what  shall  I  do  ? 

The  water  has  soak'd  them  through  and  through." 

And  there  on  the  river,  far  and  wide, 
Away  they  went  down  the  swollen  tide  ; 
And  the  saint,  astonish'd,  pass'd  through  alone, 
"Without  his  manuscripts,  up  to  the  throne. 

Then,  gravely  walking,  two  saints  by  name 
Down  to  the  river  together  came ; 
But,  as  they  stopp'd  at  the  river's  brink, 
I  saw  one  saint  from  the  other  shrink. 

"  Sprinkled  or  plunged?  may  I  ask  you,  friend, 

How  you  attain'd  to  life's  great  end  ?  " 

"  Thus,  with  a  few  drops  on  my  brow." 

"  But  /  have  been  dipp'd,  as  you'll  see  me  now ; 

And  I  really  think  it  will  hardly  do. 
As  I'm  '  close  communion,'  to  cross  with  you : 
You're  bound,  I  know,  to  the  realms  of  bliss. 
But  you  must  go  that  way,  and  I'll  go  this." 

Then  straightway  plunging  with  all  his  might. 
Away  to  the  left,  — his  friend  to  the  right,— 
Apart  they  went  from  this  world  of  sm, 
But  at  last  together  they  enter'd  m. 

And  now,  when  the  river  was  rolling  on, 

A  Presbyterian  Church  went  down ; 

Of  women  there  seem'd  an  innumerable  throng, 

But  the  men  I  could  count  as  they  pass'd  along. 

And  concerning  the  road  they  could  never  agree, 
The  old  or  the  new  way,  which  it  could  be. 
Nor  ever  a  moment  paused  to  think 
That  both  would  lead  to  the  river's  brink. 

And  a  sound  of  murmuring,  long  and  loud, 
Came  ever  up  from  the  moving  crowd: 
"You're  in  the  old  way,  and  I'm  m  the  new; 
That  is  the  false,  and  this  is  the  true  "  : 

Or,  "  I'm  in  the  old  way,  and  you  re  in  the  new; 

That  is  the  false,  and  this  is  the  true." 


34  CHOICE   READINGS. 

But  the  brethren  only  seem'd  to  speak : 
Modest  the  sisters  walk'd  and  meek, 
And,  if  one  of  them  ever  chanced  to  say 
What  troubles  she  met  with  on  the  way, 
How  she  long'd  to  pass  to  the  other  side, 
Nor  fear'd  to  cross  over  the  swelling  tide, 
A  voice  arose  from  the  brethren  then  : 
"  Let  no  one  speak  but  the  '  holy  men ' ; 
For  have  ye  not  heard  the  words  of  Paul, 
♦  O,  let  the  women  keep  silence  all '  ?  " 

I  watch'd  them  long  in  my  curious  dream, 
Till  they  stood  by  the  borders  of  the  stream : 
Then,  just  as  I  thought,  the  two  ways  met ; 
But  all  the  brethren  were  talking  yet. 
And  would  talk  on  till  the  heaving  tide 
Carried  them  over  side  by  side,  — 
Side  by  side,  for  the  w' ay  was  one  : 
The  toilsome  journey  of  life  was  done ; 
And  all  who  in  Chi-ist  the  Saviour  died 
Came  out  alike  on  the  other  side. 

No  forms  or  crosses  or  books  had  they ; 
No  gowns  of  silk  or  suits  of  gray ; 
No  creeds  to  guide  them,  or  MSS. ; 
For  all  had  put  on  Christ's  righteousness. 


EDWIN  AND   ANGELINA. 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 

"  Turn,  gentle  Hermit  of  the  dale, 

And  guide  my  lonel}'  wa}', 
To  where  yon  taper  cheers  the  vale 

With  hospitable  ray : 

For  here  forlorn  and  lost  I  tread, 
With  fainting  steps  and  slow  ; 

Where  wilds,  immeasurably  spread, 
Seem  lengthening  as  I  go." 

"Forbear,  my  son,"  the  Hermit  cries, 
' '  To  tempt  the  dangerous  gloom  ; 

For  yonder  faithless  phantom  flies 
To  lure  thee  to  thy  doom. 


EDWIX    AND    ANGELINA.  35 

Here  to  the  houseless  child  of  want 

My  door  is  open  still ; 
And,  though  m}-  portion  is  but  scant, 

I  give  it  with  good  will. 

Then  turn  to-night,  and  freely  share 

Whate'er  my  cell  bestows  ; 
My  rushy  couch  and  frugal  fare, 

M}'  blessing  and  repose. 

No  flocks  that  range  the  valley'  free 

To  slaughter  I  condemn  ; 
Taught  by  that  Power  that  pities  me, 

I  learn  to  pity  them  : 

But  from  the  mountain's  grassy  side 

A  guiltless  feast  I  bring ; 
A  scrip  with  herbs  and  fruits  supplied. 

And  water  from  the  spring. 

Then,  pilgrim,  turn,  thy  cares  forego ; 

All  earth-born  cares  are  wrong : 
Man  wants  but  little  here  below. 

Nor  wants  that  little  long." 

Soft  as  the  dew  from  heaven  descends, 

His  gentle  accents  fell : 
The  modest  stranger  lowly  bends, 

And  follows  to  the  cell. 

Far  in  a  wilderness  obscure 

The  lonely  mansion  lay, 
A  refuge  to  the  neighbouring  poor, 

And  strangers  led  astray. 

No  stores  beneath  its  humble  thatch 

Required  a  master's  care  ; 
The  wicket,  opening  with  a  latch, 

Received  the  harmless  pair. 


36  CHOICE    READINGS. 

And  now,  when  busy  crowds  retire 
To  take  their  evening  rest, 

The  Hermit  trimm'd  his  little  fire, 
And  cheer' d  his  pensive  guest ; 

And  spread  his  vegetable  store, 
And  gaily  press'd  and  smiled ; 

And,  skill'd  in  legendary  lore. 
The  lingering  hours  beguiled. 

Around  in  sympathetic  mirth 

Its  tricks  the  kitten  tries  ; 
The  cricket  chirrups  in  the  hearth, 

The  crackling  faggot  flies. 

But  nothing  could  a  charm  impart, 
To  soothe  the  stranger's  woe  ; 

For  grief  was  heavy  at  his  heart, 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 

His  rising  cares  the  Hermit  spied. 
With  answering  care  opprest : 

"  And  whence,  unhappy  3'outh,"  he  cried, 
' '  The  sorrows  of  thy  breast  ? 

From  better  habitations  spurn'd. 

Reluctant  dost  thou  rove  ? 
Or  grieve  for  friendship  unreturn'd, 

Or  unregarded  love  ? 

Alas  !  the  joys  that  fortune  brings. 

Are  trifling  and  decay  ; 
And  those  who  prize  the  paltry  things. 

More  trifling  still  than  they. 

And  what  is  friendship  but  a  name,  • 
A  charm  tliat  lulls  to  sleep  ; 

A  shade  that  follows  wealth  or  fame, 
But  leaves  the  wretch  to  weep  ? 


EDWIN    AND    ANGELINA.  37 

And  love  is  still  an  empty  sound, 

The  modern  fair-one's  jest ; 
On  Earth  unseen,  or  only  found 

To  warm  the  turtle's  nest. 

For  shame,  fond  youth  !  thy  sorrows  hush, 

And  spurn  the  sex,"  he  said : 
But  while  he  spoke,  a  rising  blush 

His  love-lorn  guest  betray'd. 

Surprised  he  sees  new  beauties  rise, 

Swift  mantling  to  the  view  ; 
Like  colours  o'er  the  morning  skies. 

As  bright,  as  transient  too. 

The  bashful  look,  the  rising  breast, 

Alternate  spread  alarms : 
The  lovel}'  stranger  stands  confest 

A  maid  in  all  her  charms. 

"And,  ah  !  forgive  a  stranger  rude, 

A  wretch  forlorn,"  she  cried; 
"  Whose  feet  unhallow'd  thus  intrude 

"Where  Heaven  and  you  reside. 

But  let  a  maid  thy  pity  share. 

Whom  love  has  taught  to  stray ; 
Who  seeks  for  rest,  but  finds  despair 

Companion  of  her  way. 

My  father  lived  beside  the  Tyne, 

A  wealthy  lord  was  he  ; 
And  all  his  wealth  was  raark'd  as  mine,  — 

He  had  but  only  me. 

To  win  me  from  his  tender  arms, 

Unnumber'd  suitors  came; 
Who  praised  me  for  imputed  charms. 

And  felt  or  feign'd  a  flame. 

4  rcoQjl  iO 


38  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Each  hour  a  mercenary  crowd 
With  richest  proffers  strove  ; 

Amongst  the  rest  young  Edwin  bow'd, 
But  never  talk'd  of  love. 

In  humblest,  simplest  habit  clad, 
No  wealth  nor  power  had  he  ; 

Wisdom  and  worth  were  all  he  had, 
But  these  were  all  to  me. 

And  when,  beside  me  in  the  dale, 

He  caroll'd  lays  of  love, 
His  breath  lent  fragrance  to  the  gale. 

And  music  to  the  grove. 

The  blossom  opening  to  the  day, 
The  dews  of  Heaven  refined, 

Could  nought  of  purit}'  displaj'^. 
To  emulate  his  mind. 

The  dew,  the  blossom  on  the  tree. 
With  charms  inconstant  shine  ; 

Their  charms  were  his,  but,  woe  to  me  I 
Their  constancy  was  mine. 

For  still  I  tried  each  fickle  art, 

Importunate  and  vain  ; 
And,  while  his  passion  touch'd  my  heart, 

I  triumph'd  in  his  pain ; 

Till,  quite  dejected  with  my  scorn. 

He  left  me  to  my  pride  ; 
And  sought  a  solitude  forlorn, 

In  secret  where  he  died. 

But  mine  the  sorrow,  mine  the  fault, 
And  well  my  life  shall  pay  : 

I'll  seek  the  solitude  lie  sought. 
And  stretch  me  where  he  lay. 


qq 

ALPINE    MINSTRELSY.  "*' 

And  there,  forlorn,  despairing,  hid, 

I'll  lay  me  down  and  die ; 
'Twas  so  for  me  that  Edwin  did, 

And  so  for  hiui  will  I." 

t'  Forbid  it,  Heaven  !  "  the  Hermit  cried. 

And  clasp'd  her  to  his  breast : 
The  wondering  fair-one  turn'd  to  chide,  - 

'Twas  Edwin's  self  that  press'd. 

"  Turn,  Angelina,  ever  dear, 

My  charmer,  turn  to  see 
Thy  own,  thy  long-lost  Edwin  here, 

Restored  to  love  and  thee. 

Thus  let  me  hold  thee  to  my  heart, 

And  every  care  resign." 
"  And  shall  we  never,  never  part, 

j^y  life,  —  my  all  that's  mine?" 

"No,  never  from  this  hour  to  part, 

We'll  live  and  love  so  true  ; 
The  sigh  that  rends  thy  constant  heart 

Shall  break  thy  Edwin's  toOo" 

ALPINE  MINSTEELSY. 

Schiller:  Translated  by  Theodore  Maktin. 
FISHER-BOY,    IN    HIS    BOAT. 

The  clear  smiling  lake  woo'd  to  bathe  in  its  deep; 

A  boy  on  its  green  shore  had  laid  him  to  sleep ; 

Then  heard  he  a  melody  flowing  and  soft. 

And  sweet,  as  when  Angels  are  singing  aloft: 

And  as,  thrilling  with  pleasure,  he  wakes  from  his  rest, 

The  waters  are  murmuring  over  his  breast ; 

And  a  voice  from  the  deep  cries,  "  With  me  thou  must  go; 

I  charm  the  young  shepherd,  I  lure  him  below." 


40  CHOICE  READINGS 

HERDSMAN,  ON  THE  MOUNTAIN. 

Farewell,  je  green  meadows,  farewell,  sunny  shore  I 
The  herdsman  must  leave  you,  the  Summer  is  o'er. 
We  go  to  the  hills,  but  3-ou'll  see  us  again, 
When  the  cuckoo  is  calling,  and  wood-notes  are  gay, 
When  flowerets  are  blooming  in  dingle  and  plain, 
And  the  brooks  sparkle  up  in  the  sunshine  of  May. 
Farewell,  ye  green  meadows,  farewell,  sunny  shore ! 
The  herdsman  must  leave  you,  the  Summer  is  o'er. 

CHAMOIS-HUNTER,    ON   THE    TOP    OF    A    CLIFF. 

On  the  heights  peals  the  thunder,  and  trembles  the  bridge  ; 

The  huntsman  bounds  on  b^'  the  dizzying  ridge  : 

Undaunted  he  hies  him  o'er  ice-cover'd  wild, 

Where  leaf  never  budded,  nor  Spring  ever  smiled ; 

And  beneath  him  an  ocean  of  mist,  where  his  eye 

No  longer  the  dwellings  of  man  can  espy : 

Through  the  parting  clo'jds  only  the  earth  can  be  seen, 

Far  down  'neath  the  vapour  the  meadows  of  green. 

A  LEGEND   OP  BKEGENZ. 

Adelaide  A.  Procter. 

Girt  round  with  rugged  mountains  the  fair  Lake  Constance 

lies ; 
In  her  blue  heart  reflected,  shine  back  the  starry  skies ; 
And,  watching  each  white  cloudlet  float  silently  and  slow, 
You  think  a  piece  of  Heaven  lies  on  our  Earth  below  ! 

Midnight  is  there ;  and  silence,  enthroned  in  heaven,  looks 

down 
Upon  her  own  calm  mirror,  upon  a  sleeping  town  ; 
For  Bregenz,  that  quaint  cit}'  upon  the  T^rol  shore. 
Has  stood  above  Lake  Constance  a  thousand  3'ears  and  more 

Her  battlements  and  towers,  upon  their  rocky  steep. 
Have  cast  their  trembling  shadows  for  ages  on  the  deep ; 


A   LEGEND    OF    BREGENZ.  41 

Mountain,  and  lake,  and  valley  a  sacred  legend  know. 
Of  how  the  town  was  saved  one  night,  three  hundred  years 
ago. 

Far  from  her  home  and  kindred,  a  Tyrol  maid  had  fled, 
To  serve  in  the  Swiss  valleys,  and  toil  for  daily  bread ; 
And  every  year  that  fleeted  so  silently  and  fast 
Seem'd  to  bear  further  from  her  the  memory  of  the  past. 

She  served  kind,  gentle  masters,  nor  ask'd  for  rest  or  change  ; 
Her  friends  seem'd  no  more  new  ones,  their  speech  seem'd 

no  more  strange  ; 
And,  when  she  led  her  cattle  to  pasture  every  da}-, 
She  ceased  to  look  and  wonder  on  which  side  Bregenz  lay. 

She  spoke  no  more  of  Bregenz,  with  longing  and  with  tears  ; 
Her  Tyrol  home  seem'd  faded  in  a  deep  mist  of  years ; 
She  heeded  not  the  rumours  of  Austrian  war  or  strife  ; 
Each  day  she  rose  contented,  to  the  calm  toils  of  life. 

ifet,  when  her  master's  children  would  clustering  round  her 

stand. 
She  sang  them  the  old  ballads  of  her  own  native  land ; 
And,  when  at  morn   and   evening   she   knelt  before  God's 

throne. 
The  accents  of  her  childhood  rose  to  her  lips  alone. 

And  so  she  dwelt :  the  valley  more  peaceful  year  by  year , 
When  suddenly  strange  portents  of  some  great  deed  seem'd 

near. 
The  golden  corn  was  bending  upon  its  fragile  stalk, 
While  farmers,  heedless  of  their  fields,  paced  up  and  down 

in  talk. 

The  men  seem'd  stern  and  alter'd,  with  looks  cast  on  the 

ground ; 
With  anxious  faces,  one  by  one,  the  women  gather'd  round ; 
All  talk  of  flax,  or  spinning,  or  work,  was  put  away ; 
The  very  children  seem'd  afraid  to  go  alone  to  play. 


42  CHOICE    READINGS. 

One  day,  out  in  the  meadow  with  strangers  from  the  town, 
Some  secret  plan  discussing,  the  men  walk'd  up  and  down. 
Yet   now  and   then    seem'd   watching   a   strange   uncertain 

gleam, 
That  look'd  like  lances  'mid  the  trees  that  stood  below  the 

stream. 

At  eve  they  all  assembled,  all  care  and  doubt  were  fled  ; 
With  jovial  laugh  they  feasted,  the  board  was  nobly  spread. 
The  elder  of  the  village  rose  up,  his  glass  in  hand. 
And  cried,  "  We  drink  the  downfall  of  an  accursed  land  ! 

The  night  is  growing  darker  ;  ere  one  more  day  is  flown 
Bregenz,    our   foemen's    stronghold,    Bregenz   shall   be   our 

own  ! " 
The  women  shrank  in  terror,  (yet  pride,  too,  had  her  part,) 
But  one  poor  Tyrol  maiden  felt  death  within  her  heart. 

Before  her  stood  fair  Bregenz,  once  more  her  towers  arose  ; 
What  were  the  friends  beside  her  ?  Only  her  country's  foes  ! 
The  faces  of  her  kinsfolk,  the  days  of  childhood  flown. 
The  echoes  of  her  mountains  reclaim'd  her  as  their  own  ! 

Nothing  she  heard  around  lier,    (though  shouts   rang   forth 

again,) 
Gone  were    the    green   Swiss  valleys,  the    pasture,  and  the 

plain  ; 
Before  her  eyes  one  vision,  and  in  her  heart  one  cry, 
That  said,  "Go  forth,  save  Bregenz,  and  then,  if  need  be, 

die ! " 

AVith  trenil)ling  haste  and  breathless,  with  noiseless  step  she 

sped  ; 
Horses  and  weary  cattle  were  standing  in  the  shed ; 
She  loosed  the  strong  white  charger,  that  fed  from  out  her 

hand, 
Slie  mounted  and  she  turn'd  his  head  toward  her  native  land. 


A  LEGEND  OF  BREGENZ.  43 

Out  —  out  into  the  darkness  —  faster,  and  still  more  fast ; 
The  smooth  grass  flies   behind   her,  the  chestnut   wood   is 

pass'd ; 
She  looks  up  ;  clouds  are  heavy  :  Why  is  her  steed  so  slow  ?  — 
Scarcely  the  wind  beside  them  can  pass  them  as  they  go. 

"Faster!"  she  cries,  "O,  faster!"  Eleven  the  church- 
bells  chime  : 

"  O  God,"  she  cries,  "  help  Bregenz,  and  bring  me  there  in 
time  ! " 

But  louder  than  bells'  ringing,  or  lowing  of  the  kine, 

Grows  nearer  in  the  midnight  the  rushing  of  the  Rhine. 

Shall  not  the  roaring  waters  their  headlong  gallop  check  ? 
The  steed  draws  back  in  terror,  she  leans  above  his  neck 
To  watch  the  flowing  darkness,  the  bank  is  high  and  steep  ; 
One  pause,  —  he  staggers  forward,  and  plunges  in  the  deep. 

She  strives  to  pierce  the  blackness,  and  looser  throws  the 

rein  ; 
Her  steed  must  breast  the  waters  that  dash  above  his  mane  : 
How  gallantly,  how  nobly,  he  struggles  through  the  foam, 
And  see,  in  the  far  distance  shine  out  the  lights  of  home  ! 

Up  the  steep  bank  he  bears  her,  and  now  they  rush  again 
Towards  the  heights  of  Bregenz,  that  tower  above  the  plain. 
They  reach  the  gate  of  Bregenz,  just  as  the  midnight  rings. 
And  out  come  serf  and  soldier  to  meet  the  news  she  brings. 

Bregenz  is  saved  !    Ere  daylight  her  battlements  are  mann'd  ; 
Defiance  greets  the  arm}'  that  marches  on  the  land : 
And,  if  to  deeds  heroic  should  endless  fame  be  paid, 
Bregenz  does  well  to  honour  the  noble  Tyrol  maid. 

Three  hundred  3ears  are  vanish'd,  and  yet  upon  the  hill 
An  old  stone  gateway  rises,  to  do  lier  honour  still. 
And  there,  when  Bregenz  women  sit  spinning  in  the  shade, 
They  see  in  quaint  old  carving  the  charger  and  the  maid. 


44  CHOICE   READINGS. 

And  when,  to  guard  old  Bregenz,  by  gatewa}^,  street,  and 

tower, 
The  warder  paces  all  night  long,  and  calls  each  passing  hour  : 
"  Nine,"  "  ten,"  "  eleven,"  he  cries  aloud,  and  then  (O  crown 

of  fame !) 
When   midnight  pauses  in  the  skies   he  calls  the  maiden's 

name. 

THE  EIDE   or   JENNIE  M'NEAL. 

Will  Carleton. 

Paul  Revere  was  a  rider  bold,  — 
Well  has  his  valorous  deed  been  told  ; 
Sheridan's  ride  was  a  glorious  one,  — 
Often  it  has  been  dwelt  upon  ; 
But  why  should  men  do  all  the  deeds 
On  which  the  love  of  a  patriot  feeds? 
Hearken  to  me,  while  I  reveal 
The  dashing  ride  of  Jennie  M'Neal. 

On  a  spot  as  pretty  as  might  be  found 

In  the  dangerous  length  of  the  Neutral  Ground, 

In  a  cottage,  cozy,  and  all  their  own, 

She  and  her  mother  lived  alone. 

Safe  were  the  two,  with  their  frugal  store, 

From  all  the  many  who  pass'd  their  door ; 

For  Jennie's  mother  was  strange  to  fears, 

And  Jennie  was  large  for  fifteen  years  : 

With  vim  her  eyes  were  glistening, 

Her  hair  was  the  hue  of  a  blackbird's  wing; 

And,  while  her  friends  who  knew  her  well 

The  sweetness  of  her  heart  could  tell, 

A  gun  that  hung  on  the  kitchen  wall 

Look'd  solemnly  quick  to  heed  her  call ; 

And  they  who  were  evil-minded  knew 

Her  nerve  was  strong  and  her  aim  was  true. 

So  all  kind  words  and  acts  did  deal 

To  generous,  black-eyed  Jennie  M'Neal. 

One  night,  when  the  Sun  had  crept  to  bed, 
And  rain-clouds  linger'd  overhead. 
And  sent  their  surly  drops  for  proof 
To  drum  a  tune  on  the  cottage  roof, 


THE    RIDE    OF    JENNIE    m'nEAL.  45 

Close  after  a  knock  at  the  outer  door 
There  enter'd  a  dozen  dragoons  or  more. 
Their  red  coats,  stain'd  by  the  muddy  road, 
That  they  were  British  soldiers  show'd  ; 
The  captain  his  hostess  bent  to  greet, 
Saying,  "  Madam,  please  give  us  a  bit  to  eat ; 
We  will  pay  you  well,  and,  if  may  be, 
This  bright-eyed  girl  for  pouring  our  tea ; 
Then  we  must  dash  ten  miles  ahead, 
To  catch  a  rebel  colonel  a-bed. 
He  is  visiting  home,  as  doth  appear ; 
We  will  make  his  pleasure  cost  him  dear." 
And  they  fell  on  the  hasty  supper  with  zeal, 
Close-watch'd  the  while  by  Jennie  M'Neal. 

For  the  gray-hair'd  colonel  they  hover'd  near 
Had  been  her  true  friend,  kind  and  dear ; 
And  oft,  in  her  younger  days,  had  he 
Right  proudly  perch'd  her  upon  his  knee, 
And  told  her  stories  many  a  one 
Concerning  the  French  war  lately  done. 
And  oft  together  the  two  friends  were. 
And  many  the  arts  he  had  taught  to  her ; 
She  had  hunted  by  his  fatherly  side, 
He  had  shown  her  how  to  fence  and  ride; 
And  once  had  said,  "  The  time  may  be, 
Your  skill  and  courage  may  stand  by  me." 
So  sorrow  for  him  she  could  but  feel, 
Brave,  grateful-hearted  Jennie  M'Neal. 

With  never  a  thought  or  a  moment  more, 
Bare-headed  she  slipp'd  from  the  cottage  door, 
Ran  out  where  the  horses  were  left  to  feed, 
Unhitch'd  and  mounted  the  captain's  steed, 
And  down  the  hilly  and  rock-strewn  way 
She  urged  the  fiery  horse  of  gray. 
Around  her  slender  and  cloakless  form 
Patter'd  and  moan'd  the  ceaseless  storm ; 
Secure  and  tight  a  gloveless  hand 
Grasp'd  the  reins  with  stern  command; 
And  full  and  black  her  long  hair  stream'd. 
Whenever  the  ragged  lightning  gleam'd. 
And  on  she  rush'd  for  the  colonel's  weal, 
Brave,  lioness-hearted,  Jennie  M'Neal. 

Hark  I  from  the  hills,  a  moment  mute. 
Came  a  clatter  of  hoofs  in  hot  pursuit ; 
And  a  cry  from  the  foremost  trooper  said, 
"  Halt  I  or  your  blood  be  on  your  head  I " 


46  CHOICE   READINGS. 

She  heeded  it  not,  and  not  in  vaia 

She  lash'd  the  horse  with  the  bridle  rein; 

So  into  the  night  the  gray  horse  strode ; 

His  shoes  hew'd  fire  from  the  rocky  road; 

And  tlie  high-born  courage  that  never  dies 

Flash'd  from  his  rider's  coal-black  eyes  : 

The  pebbles  flew  from  the  fearful  race  ; 

The  rain-drops  grasp'd  at  her  glowing  face. 

"On,  ou,  brave  beast !  "  with  loud  appeal, 

Cried  eager,  resolute  Jennie  M'Neal. 

"  Halt  1  "  once  more  came  the  voice  of  dread ; 

"  Halt !  or  your  blood  be  on  your  head  1 " 

Then,  no  one  answering  to  the  calls. 

Sped  after  her  a  volley  of  balls. 

They  pass'd  her  in  her  rapid  fliglit. 

They  scream'd  to  her  left,  they  scream'd  to  her  right ; 

But,  rushing  still  o'er  the  slippery  track, 

She  sent  no  token  of  answer  back, 

Except  a  silvery  laughter  peal. 

Brave,  merry-hearted  Jennie  M'Neal. 

So  on  she  rush'd,  at  her  own  good  will, 

Through  wood  and  valley,  o'er  plain  and  hill: 

The  gray  horse  did  his  duty  well. 

Till  all  at  once  he  stumbled  and  fell, 

Himself  escaping  the  nets  of  harm. 

But  flinging  the  girl  with  a  broken  arm. 

Still  undismay'd  by  the  numbing  pain, 

She  clung  to  the  horse's  bridle  rein, 

And  gently  bidding  him  to  stand. 

Petted  him  with  her  able  hand ; 

Then  sprung  again  to  the  saddle-bow, 

And  shouted,  "  One  more  trial  now ! " 

As  if  ashamed  of  the  heedless  fall, 

He  gather'd  his  strength  once  more  for  all, 

And,  galloping  down  a  hill-side  steep, 

Gain'd  on  the  troopers  at  every  leap ; 

No  more  the  high-bred  steed  did  reel, 

But  ran  his  best  for  Jennie  M'Neal. 


They  were  a  furlong  behind,  or  more, 
Wlien  the  girl  burst  through  the  colonel's  door,— 
Her  poor  arm  helpless  hanging  with  pain, 
And  she  all  drabbled  and  drench'd  with  rain. 
But  her  cheeks  as  red  as  fire-brands  are. 
And  her  eyes  as  bright  as  a  blazing  star,  — 
And  shouted,  "  Quick !  be  quick,  I  say  I 
They  come  1  they  come  I     Away  I  away  1  " 


MAUD    MULLER.  47 

Then  sunk  on  the  rude  white  floor  of  deal 
Poor,  brave,  exhausted  Jennie  M'Neal. 

The  startled  colonel  sprung,  and  press'd 

The  wife  and  children  to  his  breast, 

And  turn'd  away  from  his  fireside  bright, 

And  glided  into  the  stormy  night ; 

Then  soon  and  safely  made  his  way 

To  where  the  patriot  army  lay. 

But  first  he  bent,  in  the  dim  fire-light. 

And  kiss'd  the  foi'ehead  broad  and  white, 

And  bless'd  the  girl  who  had  ridden  so  well 

To  keep  him  out  of  a  prison-cell. 

The  girl  roused  up  at  the  martial  din, 

Just  as  the  troopers  came  rushing  in. 

And  laugh'd,  e'en  in  the  midst  of  a  moan, 

Saying,  "  Good  sirs,  your  bird  has  flown : 

'Tis  I  who  have  scared  him  from  his  nest ; 

So  deal  with  me  now  as  you  think  best." 

But  the  grand  yomig  captain  bow'd,  and  said, 

"  Never  you  hold  a  moment's  dread : 

Of  womankind  I  must  crown  you  queen  ; 

So  brave  a  girl  I  have  never  seen : 

Wear  this  gold  ring  as  your  valour's  due  ; 

And  wlien  peace  comes  I  will  come  for  you." 

But  Jennie's  face  an  arch  smile  wore, 

As  she  said,  "  There's  a  lad  in  Putnam's  corps. 

Who  told  me  the  same,  long  time  ago; 

You  two  would  never  agree,  I  know  : 

I  promised  my  love  to  be  true  as  steel," 

Said  good,  sure-hearted  Jennie  M'Neal. 


MAUD   MULLEK. 

J.  G.  Whittier. 

Maud  Muller,  on  a  Summer's  day, 
Raked  the  meadows  sweet  with  ha^' : 

Beneath  her  torn  hat  glow'd  the  wealth 
Of  simple  beauty  and  rustic  health : 


48  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Singing,  she  wrought,  and  her  merry  glee 
The  mock-bird  echo'd  from  his  tree. 

But,  when  she  glanced  to  the  far-off  town, 
White  from  its  hill-slope  looking  down, 

The  sweet  song  died,  and  a  vague  unrest 
And  a  nameless  longing  fill'd  her  breast,  — 

A  wish,  that  she  hardly  dared  to  own, 
For  something  better  than  she  had  known. 

The  Judge  rode  slowly  down  the  lane, 
Smoothing  his  horse's  chestnut  mane. 

He  drew  his  bridle  in  the  shade 

Of  the  apple-trees,  to  greet  the  maid, 

And  ask  a  draught  from  the  spring  that  flow'd 
Through  the  meadow  across  the  road. 

She  stoop'd  where  the  cool  spring  bubbled  up. 
And  fill'd  for  him  her  small  tin  cup. 

And  blush'd  as  she  gave  it,  looking  down 
On  her  feet  so  bare,  and  her  tatter'd  gown. 

"  Thanks  !  "  said  the  Judge  ;  "  a  sweeter  draught 
From  a  fairer  hand  was  never  quaff 'd." 

He  spoke  of  the  grass  and  flowers  and  trees. 
Of  the  singing  birds  and  the  humming  bees  ; 

Then  talk'd  of  the  haying,  and  wonder'd  whether 
The  cloud  in  the  west  would  bring  foul  weather. 

And  Maud  forgot  her  brier-torn  gown. 
And  her  graceful  ankles  bare  and  brown ; 

And  listen'd,  while  a  pleased  surprise 
Look'd  from  her  long-lash'd  hazel-eyes. 


MAUD    MULLER.  49 

At  last,  like  one  who  for  delay 
Seeks  a  vain  excuse,  he  rode  away. 

Maud  MuUer  look'd  and  sigh'd  :  "  Ah,  me  ! 
That  I  the  Judge's  bride  might  be  ! 

He  would  dress  me  up  in  silks  so  fine, 
And  praise  and  toast  me  at  his  wine. 

My  father  should  wear  a  broadcloth  coat ; 
My  brother  should  sail  a  painted  boat. 

I'd  dress  my  mother  so  grand  and  gay  ; 

And  the  baby  should  have  a  new  toy  each  da}'- 

And  I'd  feed  the  hungry  and  clothe  the  poor. 
And  all  should  bless  me  who  left  our  door." 

The  Judge  look'd  back  as  he  climb'd  the  hill, 
And  saw  Maud  Muller  standing  still. 

"  A  form  more  fair,  a  face  more  sweet, 
Ne'er  hath  it  been  my  lot  to  meet. 

And  her  modest  answer  and  graceful  air 
Show  her  wise  and  good  as  she  is  fair. 

Would  she  were  mine,  and  I  to-day, 
Like  her  a  harvester  of  hay  : 

No  doubtful  balance  of  rights  and  wrongs. 
Nor  weary  lawyers  with  endless  tongues, 

But  low  of  cattle  and  song  of  birds. 
And  health  and  quiet  and  loving  words." 

But  he  thought  of  his  sisters  proud  and  cold. 
And  his  mother  vain  of  her  rank  and  gold. 

So,  closing  his  heart,  the  Judge  rode  on. 
And  Maud  was  left  in  the  field  alone. 


50  CHOICE    READINGS. 

But  the  lawyers  smiled  that  afternoon, 
When  he  humm'd  in  court  an  old  love-tune ; 

And  the  young  girl  mused  beside  the  well, 
Till  the  rain  on  the  unraked  clover  fell. 

He  wedded  a  wife  of  richest  dower. 
Who  lived  for  fashion,  as  he  for  power. 

Yet  oft,  in  his  marble  hearth's  bi'ight  glow, 
He  watch'd  a  picture  come  and  go ; 

And  sweet  Maud  Muller's  hazel  e3-es 
Look'd  out  in  their  innocent  surprise. 

Oft,  when  the  wine  in  his  glass  was  red, 
He  long'd  for  the  wayside  well  instead  ; 

And  closed  his  eyes  on  his  garnish'd  rooms, 
To  dream  of  meadows  and  clover-blooms. 

And  the  proud  man  sigh'd,  with  a  secret  pain : 
"  Ah,  that  I  were  free  again  ! 

Free  as  when  I  rode  that  da}. 

Where  the  barefoot  maiden  raked  her  hay." 

She  wedded  a  man  unlearn'd  and  poor, 
And  many  children  play'd  round  her  door. 

And  oft,  when  the  summer  Sun  shone  hot 
On  the  new-mown  bay  in  the  meadow  lot, 

And  she  heard  the  little  spring  brook  fall 
Over  the  roadside,  through  the  wall, 

In  the  shade  of  the  apple-tree  again 
She  saw  a  rider  draw  his  rein. 

And,  gazing  down  with  timid  grace, 
She  felt  his  i)leased  eyes  read  her  face. 


mona's  waters.  51 

Sometimes  her  narrow  kitchen  walls 
Stretch'd  awa^'  into  stately  halls  ; 

The  weary  wheel  to  a  spinnet  turn'cl, 
The  tallow  candle  an  astral  burn'd, 

And  for  him  who  sat  by  the  chimne}'  lug, 
Dozing  and  grumbling  o'er  pipe  and  mug, 

A  manly  form  at  her  side  she  saw, 
And  joy  was  duty  and  love  was  law. 

Then  she  took  up  her  burden  of  life  again, 
Saying  only,  "  It  might  have  been." 

Alas  for  maiden,  alas  for  Judge, 

For  rich  repiner  and  household  drudge ! 

God  pity  them  Ijotli !  and  pity  us  all, 
Who  vainly  the  dreams  of  youth  recall. 

For  of  all  sad  words  of  tongue  or  pen. 

The  saddest  are  these,  "  It  might  have  been ! 

Ah,  well !  for  us  all  some  sweet  hope  lies 
Deeply  buried  from  human  eyes  ; 

And,  in  the  hereafter,  angels  may 
Roll  the  stone  from  its  grave  away ! 


MONA'S   WATERS. 

O,  Mona's  waters  are  blue  and  bright 

When  the  Sun  shines  out  like  a  gay  young  lover 
But  Mona's  waves  are  dark  as  night 

When  the  face  of  heaven  is  clouded  over. 
The  wild  wind  drives  the  crested  foam 

Far  up  the  steep  and  rocky  mountain. 
And  booming  echoes  drown  the  voice. 

The  silvery  voice,  of  Mona's  fountain. 


52  CHOICE   READINGS. 

Wild,  wild  against  that  mountain's  side 

The  wrathful  waves  were  up  and  beating, 
When  stern  Glenvarloch's  chieftain  came  : 

With  anxious  brow  and  hurried  greeting 
He  bade  the  widow'd  mother  send 

(While  loud  the  tempest's  voice  was  raging) 
Her  fair  young  son  across  the  flood, 

Where  winds  and  waves  their  strife  were  waging. 

And  still  that  fearful  mother  pray'd, 

"  O,  yet  delay,  delay  till  morning. 
For  weak  the  hand  that  guides  our  bark, 

Though  brave  his  heart,  all  danger  scorning." 
Little  did  stern  Glenvarloch  heed  : 

"  The  safety  of  my  fortress-tower 
Depends  on  tidings  he  must  bring 

From  Fairlee  bank,  within  the  hour. 

See'st  thou,  across  the  sullen  wave, 

A  blood-red  banner  wildly  streaming? 
That  flag  a  message  brings  to  me 

Of  which  mj'  foes  are  little  dreaming. 
The  boy  tmist  put  his  boat  across, 

(Gold  shall  repay  his  hour  of  danger,) 
And  bring  me  back,  with  care  and  speed, 

Three  letters  from  the  light-brow'd  stranger." 

The  orphan  boy  leap'd  lightly  in  ; 

Bold  was  his  eye  and  brow  of  beauty, 
And  bright  his  smile  as  thus  he  spoke  : 

"  I  do  but  pay  a  vassal's  duty  ; 
Fear  not  for  me,  O  mother  dear ! 

See  how  the  boat  the  tide  is  spurning ; 
The  storm  will  cease,  the  sky  will  clear. 

And  thou  wilt  watch  me  safe  returning." 

His  bark  shot  on,  now  up,  now  down, 
Over  the  waves,  —  the  snowy-crested  ; 


moka's  waters.  53 

Now  like  a  dart  it  sped  along, 

Now  like  a  white-wing'd  sea-bird  rested  ; 

And  ever,  when  the  wind  sank  low. 

Smote  on  the  ear  that  woman's  wailing, 

As  long  she  wateh'd  with  streaming  eyes 
That  fragile  bark's  uncertain  sailing. 

He  reaeh'd  the  shore,  —  the  letters  elaim'd  ; 

Triumphant,  heard  the  stranger's  wonder 
That  one  so  young  should  brave  alone 

The  heaving  lake,  the  rolling  thunder. 
And  once  again  his  snowy  sail 

Was  seen  by  her,  that  mourning  mother ; 
And  once  she  heard  his  shouting  voice, 

That  voice  the  waves  were  soon  to  smother. 

Wild  burst  the  wind,  wide  flapp'd  the  sail, 

A  crashing  peel  of  thunder  foUow'd  ; 
The  gust  swept  o'er  the  water's  face. 

And  caverns  in  the  deep  lake  hoUow'd. 
The  gust  swept  past,  the  waves  grew  calm. 

The  thunder  died  along  the  mountain  ; 
But  where  was  he  who  used  to  play. 

On  sunny  days,  by  Mona's  fountain  ? 

His  cold  corpse  floated  to  the  shore, 

Where  knelt  his  lone  and  shrieking  mother ; 
And  bitterly  she  wept  for  him. 

The  widow's  son,  who  had  no  brother ! 
She  raised  his  arm,  —  the  hand  was  closed  ; 

With  pain  his  stiffen'd  fingers  parted, 
And  on  the  sand  three  letters  dropp'd  !  — 

His  last  dim  thought,  —  the  faithful-hearted. 

Glenvarloch  gazed,  and  on  liis  brow 

Remorse  with  pain  and  grief  seem'd  blending ; 

A  purse  of  gold  he  flung  beside 

That  mother  o'er  her  dead  child  bending. 


54  CEOICE   READINGS. 

O,  wildly  laugh'd  that  woman  then  : 

"  Glenvarloch  !  would  ye  dare  to  measure 

The  holy  life  that  God  has  given 
Against  a  heap  of  golden  treasure  ? 

Ye  spurn'd  m}'  prayer,  for  we  were  poor ; 

But  know,  proud  man,  that  God  hath  power 
To  smite  the  king  on  Scotland's  throne. 

The  chieftain  in  his  fortress-tower. 
Frown  on  !  frown  on  !  I  fear  3'e  not ; 

"We've  done  the  last  of  chieftain's  bidding; 
And  cold  he  lies,  for  whose  young  sake 

I  used  to  bear  your  wrathful  chiding. 

Will  gold  bring  back  his  cheerful  voice, 

That  used  to  win  m^-  heart  from  sorrow? 
Will  silver  warm  the  frozen  blood. 

Or  make  my  heart  less  lone  to-morrow? 
Go  back  and  seek  your  mountain  home. 

And  when  ye  kiss  your  fair-hair'd  daughter. 
Remember  him  who  died  to-night 

Beneath  the  waves  of  Mona's  water." 

Old  3-ears  roU'd  on,  and  new  ones  came,  — 

Foes  dare  not  brave  Glenvarloch's  tower ; 
But  nought  could  bar  the  sickness  out 

That  stole  within  fair  Annie's  bower. 
The  o'erblowu  floweret  in  the  sun 

Sinks  languid  down,  and  withers  daily, 
And  so  she  sank,  —  her  voice  grew  faint, 

Her  laugh  no  longer  sounded  ga,y\y. 

Her  step  fell  on  the  old  oak  floor 

As  noiseless  as  the  snow-shower's  drifting  j 

And  from  her  sweet  and  serious  eyes 
They  seldom  saw  the  dark  lid  lifting. 

"  Bring  aid  !     Bring  aid  !  "  the  father  cries  ; 
"  Bring  aid  ! "  each  vassal's  voice  is  crying ; 


AN   ODE   TO   THE    PASSIONS.  55 

' '  The  f air-hair'd  beauty  of  the  isles, 
Her  pulse  is  faint,  her  life  is  flying  !  " 

He  call'd  in  vain ;  her  dim  eyes  turn'd 

And  met  his  own  with  parting  sorrow  ; 
For  well  she  knew,  that  fading  girl, 

That  he  must  weep  and  wail  the  morrow. 
Her  faint  breath  ceased  ;  the  father  bent 

And  gazed  upon  his  fair-hair'd  daughter. 
What  thought  he  on?     The  widow's  son, 

And  the  stormy  night  by  Mona's  water. 


AN  ODE  TO  THE  PASSIONS. 

William  Collins. 

When  Music,  heavenly  maid,  was  youn^ 
Ere  yet  in  early  Greece  she  sung. 
The  Passions  oft,  to  hear  her  shell, 
Throng'd  around  her  magic  cell ; 
Exulting,  trembling,  raging,  fainting, 
Possess'd  beyond  the  Muse's  painting, 
By  turns  they  felt  the  glowing  mind, 
Disturb'd,  delighted,  raised,  refined ; 
Till  once,  'tis  said,  when  all  were  fired, 
Fill'd  with  fury,  rapt,  inspired. 
From  the  supporting  myrtles  round, 
They  seized  her  instruments  of  sound ; 
And,  as  they  oft  had  heard,  apart, 
Sweet  lessons  of  her  forceful  art, 
Each  —  for  madness  ruled  the  hour  — 
Would  prove  his  own  expressive  power. 

First  Fear,  his  hand,  its  skill  to  try. 
Amid  the  chords  bewilder'd  laid  ; 

And  back  recoil'd  —  he  knew  not  why- 
E'en  at  the  sound  himself  had  made ! 


56  CHOICK    UKAUINGS. 

Next  Anger  rush'd,  liis  eyes  on  fire, 

In  lightnings  own'd  his  secret  slings ; 
In  one  rude  clash  he  struck  the  lyre, 

And  swept  with  hurried  iumd  the  strings. 

With  woeful  measure,  wan  Despair  — 

Low  sullen  sounds  —  his  grief  beguiled; 
A  solemn,  strange,  and  minghnl  air, 

*Twas  sad  by  fits,  by  starts  'twas  wild  I 

But  thou,  O  Hope,  with  ey(!S  so  fair, 

What  was  thy  delighted  measure? 

Still  it  whispcr'd  i)romised  ph^-isure. 
And  bade  the  lovely  scenes  at  distance  hail  1 
Still  would  her  touch  the  strain  prolong. 

And  from  the  rocks,  the  woods,  the  vale, 
81ie  call'd  on  Echo  still  tlu'ougli  all  the  song; 
And,  where  her  sweetest  themes  she  chose, 
A  soft  responsive  voice  was  hejird  at  every  close; ; 
And  Ilopi!,  enchant(!(l,  sniil(!d,  and  waved  h(!r  golden  hair: 
And  longer  had  she  sung,  —  l)ut,  with  a  frown, 

Revenge  impatient  rose  ; 
He  threw  his  blood-stain'd  sword  in  thunder  down, 

And,  with  a  withering  look. 

The  war-denouncing  trump(;t  took. 
And  blew  a  l)last  so  loud  and  (bead, 
Were  ne'er  prophetic  sounds  so  full  of  woe ; 

And  ever  and  anon  he  beat 

The  doubling  drum  with  furious  heat; 
And  th(;ugli  Hom(!times,  (!ach  dreary  pause  between, 

Dej(!cted  Pity,  at  his  side. 

Her  soul-subduing  voice  applicul, 
Yet  sfill  lie  kept  his  wil<l  unalter'd  ini<'n, 
Whihreacli  strain'd  ball  of  sight  seem'd  bursting  from  his  h(!ad  ! 

'I'hy  numbers,  Jc^alousy,  to  nouglit  wen;  (ix'd, 

Sad  [)roof  of  thy  distnissful  state  ; 
Of  differing  themes,  Uu:  ve(;ring  song  was  mix'd  ; 
Aiirl  now  it  courted  Love,  now  raving  ciiH'd  on  Hate  ! 


AN    01>E    TO    THE    PASSIONS.  57 

With  eyes  upraised,  as  oue  inspired, 

Tale  Melaneholy  sat  retired  ; 

And  Ironi  lier  wild  sequoster'd  seat. 

In  notes  by  distance  made  more  sweet, 

I  'our'd  through  the  mellow  horn  her  pensive  soul ; 

And,  ilashing  soft  from  roeks  around. 

HubMing  runnels  join'il  tlu'  sound  : 
Through  glades  and  glooms  l\w  mingled  measure  stoIe^ 
Or  o'er  some  haunted  stream,  with  fond  dela}', 

Houml  a  holy  oaliu  ditTusing, 

Love  of  peace  and  lonely  nuising. 
In  iu)lU)w  uunimus  died  away. 

Hut.  O,  how  alter'il  was  its  spriglitlier  tone  ! 

When  Cheerfulness,  a  nymph  of  liealthiost  hue, 
Her  bi»w  across  her  shoulder  ttuug. 

Her  buskins  gcnuuM  with  morning  dew. 

lUcw  an  inspiring  air.  that  dale  and  thicket  rung, 
Tlic  hunter's  call,  to  Faun  and  Hryad  known. 

Tlu>  oak-crowu'd  sisters  and  their  c'haste-eyed  Queen. 

Satyrs  and  sylvan  boys  were  seen, 

Pi'cping  from  forth  their  alleys  green  ; 

Blown  Exercise  rejoiccil  to  hear. 

And  Spt)rt  IcapM  up,  and  sci/.ed  his  bcccheu  spear. 

l.asl  came  Joy's  ecstatic  trial  : 

11c,  with  viny  crown  ailvancing. 

First  to  tlic  lively  pi|>c  liis  hautl  address'd  ; 

Hut  soon  he  saw  the  brisk,  awakening  viol. 

Whose  sweet  entrancing  voice  he  loved  the  best. 

They  would  have  tliouglit.  wlio  heard  the  strain. 

They  saw  in  Temju^'s  vale  her  native  m.-iids. 

Amidst  the  festal-souuiling  shades. 
To  some  unwearied  minstrel  dancing; 
Willie,  as  his  flying  tingers  kiss'd  the  strings. 
Love  framed  with  ^Firth  a  iiav  fantastic  round; 


58  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Loose  were  her  tresses  seen,  her  zone  unbound; 
And  he,  amidst  his  frolic  plaj^  — 
As  if  he  would  the  charming  air  repay,  — 
Shook  thousand  odours  from  his  dewy  wings. 

AN  OEDEE  rOE  A  PIOTUEE. 

Alice  Gary. 

O  GOOD  painter,  tell  me  true, 

Has  your  hand  the  cunning  to  draw 
Shapes  of  things  that  3'ou  never  saw? 

Ay?  Well,  here  is  an  order  for  you. 

Woods  and  cornfields,  a  little  brown,  — 
The  picture  must  not  be  over-bright, 
Yet  all  in  the  golden  and  gracious  light 
Of  a  cloud,  when  the  summer  Sun  is  down. 
Alway  and  alwa^',  night  and  morn. 
Woods  upon  woods,  with  fields  of  corn 
Lying  between  them,  not  quite  sere. 
And  not  in  the  full,  thick,  leaf}^  bloom. 
When  the  wind  can  hardly  find  breathing-room 

Under  their  tassels,  —  cattle  near, 
Biting  shorter  the  shoi't  green  grass. 
And  a  hedge  of  sumach  and  sassafras, 
With  bluebirds  twittering  all  around,  — 
(Ah,  good  painter,  you  can't  paint  sound !) 
These,  and  the  house  where  I  was  born, 
Low  and  little,  and  black  and  old, 
With  children,  many  as  it  can  hold, 
All  at  the  windows,  open  wide,  — 
Heads  and  shoulders  clear  outside, 
And  fair  young  faces  all  ablush : 

Perhaps  3'ou  ma}'  have  seen,  some  day, 
Roses  crowding  the  self-same  way. 
Out  of  a  wilding,  wayside  bush. 


AN    ORDER    FOR    A    PICTURE.  59 

Listen  closer  :    When  you  have  done 

With  woods  and  cornfields  and  grazing  herds, 

A  lady,  the  lovliest  ever  the  Sun 
Look'd  down  upon,  you  must  paint  for  me ; 
O,  if  I  only  could  make  you  see 

The  clear  blue  eyes,  the  tender  smile. 
The  sovereign  sweetness,  the  gentle  grace, 
The  woman's  soul,  and  the  angel's  face, 

That  are  beaming  on  me  all  the  while, 

I  need  not  speak  these  foolish  words : 

Yet  one  word  tells  you  all  I  would  say,  — 
She  is  m^-  mother :  you  will  agree 

That  all  the  rest  may  be  thrown  away. 

Two  little  urchins  at  her  knee 
You  must  paint,  sir  ;  one  like  me. 
The  other  with  a  clearer  brow, 

And  the  light  of  his  adventurous  eyes 

Flashing  with  boldest  enterprise  : 
At  ten  3ears  old  he  went  to  sea,  — 
God  knoweth  if  he  be  living  now ; 

He  sail'd  in  the  good  ship  Commodore ; 
Nobody  ever  cross'd  her  track 
To  bring  us  news,  and  she  never  came  back. 
Ah,  'tis  twenty  long  years  and  more 
Since  that  old  ship  went  out  of  the  bay 

With  my  great-hearted  brother  on  her  deck  •• 

I  watch'd  him  till  he  shrank  to  a  speck, 
And  his  face  was  toward  me  all  the  way. 
Bright  his  hair  was,  a  golden  brown. 

The  time  we  stood  at  our  mother's  knee : 
That  beauteous  head,  if  it  did  go  down, 

Carried  sunshine  into  the  sea  ! 

Out  in  the  fields  one  summer  night 
We  were  together,  half  afraid 
Of  the  corn-leaves'  rustling,  and  of  the  shade 
Of  the  high  hills,  stretching  so  still  and  far, — 


60  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Loitering  till  after  the  low  little  light 

Of  the  candle  shone  through  the  open  door ; 
And  over  the  haystack's  pointed  top, 
All  of  a  tremble,  and  read}-  to  drop, 

The  first  half -hour,  the  great  yellow  star, 

That  we,  with  staring,  ignorant  eyes. 
Had  often  and  often  watch'd  to  see, 

Propp'd  and  held  in  its  place  in  the  skies 
By  the  fork  of  a  tall  red  mulberry  tree. 

Which  close  in  the  edge  of  our  flax-field  grew, — 
Dead  at  the  top,  — just  one  branch  full 
Of  leaves,  notch'd  round,  and  lined  with  wool, 

From  which  it  tenderh'  shook  the  dew 
Over  our  heads,  when  we  came  to  play 
In  its  handbreadth  of  shadow,  day  after  day. 

Afraid  to  go  home,  sir ;  for  one  of  us  bore 
A  nest  full  of  speckled  and  thin-shell'd  eggs ; 
The  other,  a  bird,  held  fast  by  the  legs. 
Not  so  big  as  a  straw  of  wheat : 
The  berries  we  gave  her  she  wouldn't  eat, 
But  cried  and  cried,  till  we  held  her  bill, 
So  slim  and  shining,  to  keep  her  still. 

At  last  we  stood  at  our  mother's  knee. 

Do  you  think,  sir,  if  you  try, 

You  can  paint  the  look  of  a  lie  ? 

If  3-0U  can,  pray  have  the  grace 

To  put  it  solely  in  the  face 
Of  the  urchin  that  is  likest  me  : 

I  think  'twas  solely  mine,  indeed : 

But  that's  no  matter,  —  paint  it  so  ; 

The  eyes  of  our  mother,  (take  good  heed,) 
Looking  not  on  the  nestful  of  eggs, 
Nor  the  fluttering  bird,  held  so  fast  by  the  legs, 
But  straight  through  our  faces  down  to  our  lies. 
And,  O,  with  such  injured,  reproachful  surprise  ! 

I  felt  my  heart  bleed  where  that  glance  went,  as  though 

A  sharp  blade  struck  through  it. 


THE   PAINTER   OF   SEVILLE.  61 

You,  sir,  know 
That  3011  on  the  canvas  are  to  repeat 
Things  that  are  fairest,  things  most  sweet,  — 
Woods  and  cornfields  and  mulberry  tree,  — 
The  mother,  — the  lads,  with  their  bird,  at  her  knee: 

But,  O,  that  look  of  reproachful  woe  ! 
High  as  the  heavens  30ur  name  I'll  shout, 
If  you  paint  me  the  picture,  and  leave  that  out. 

THE  PAINTER  OP  SEVILLE. 

Susan  Wilson. 

Sebastian  Gomez,  better  known  by  the  name  of  the  Mulatto  of  Murillo, 
was  one  of  the  most  celebrated  painters  of  Spain.  There  may  yet  be  seen 
in  the  churches  of  Seville  the  celebrated  picture  which  he  was  found  paint- 
ing, by  his  master,  a  St.  Anne,  and  a  holy  Joseph,  which  are  extremely 
beautiful,  and  others  of  the  highest  merit.  The  incident  related  occurred 
about  the  year  1630. 

'TwAS  morning  in  Seville  ;  and  brightly  beam'd 
The  early  sunlight  in  one  chamber  there ; 

Showing  where'er  its  glowing  radiance  gleam'd, 
Rich,  varied  beauty.     'Twas  the  study  where 

Murillo,  the  famed  painter,  came  to  share 
With  young  aspirants  his  long-cherish'd  art. 

To  prove  how  vain  must  be  the  teacher's  care, 
Who  strives  his  unbought  knowledge  to  impart, 
The  language  of  the  soul,  the  feeling  of  the  heart. 

The  pupils  came  ;  and,  glancing  round, 
Mendez  upon  his  canvas  found, 
Not  his  own  work  of  yesterday, 
But,  glowing  in  the  morning  ray, 
A  sketch  so  rich,  so  pure,  so  bright. 

It  almost  seem'd  that  there  were  given, 
To  glow  before  his  dazzled  sight. 

Tints  and  expression  warm  from  Heaven. 

If  #  *  *  *  * 


62  CHOICE   READINGS. 

'Twas  but  a  sketch,  —  the  Virgin's  bead; 
Yet  was  unearthly  beauty  shed 
Upon  the  mildly  beaming  face  : 
The  lip,  the  eye,  the  flowing  hair, 
Had  separate,  yet  blended  grace, — 
A  poet's  brightest  dream  was  there  ! 

Murillo  enter'd,  and,  amazed, 

On  the  mysterious  painting  gazed  : 

"  Whose  work  is  this?  —  speak,  tell  me  !  — he 

Who  to  his  aid  such  power  can  call," 
Exclaira'd  the  teacher  eagerly, 

"  Will  yet  be  master  of  us  all : 
Would  I  had  done  it !  —  Ferdinand  ! 
Isturitz  !  Mendez  !  —  say,  whose  hand 
Among  ye  all  ?  " —  with  half-breathed  sigh, 
Each  pupil  answer'd,  "  'Twas  not  I !  " 

*'How  came  it,  then?"  impatiently 
Murillo  cried  :  "  but  we  shall  see, 
Ere  loug,  into  this  mystery.  — 
Sebastian ! " 

At  the  summons  came 

A  bright-eyed  slave. 
Who  trembled  at  the  stern  rebuke 

His  master  gave. 
For,  order'd  in  that  room  to  sleep, 
And  faithful  guard  o'er  all  to  keep, 
Murillo  bade  him  now  declare 
What  rash  intruder  had  been  there  ; 
And  threaten'd  —  if  he  did  not  tell 
The  truth  at  once  —  the  dungeon-cell. 

"  Thou  answer'st  not,"  Murillo  said  ; 
(The  boy  had  stood  in  speechless  fear.) 

"  Speak  on  !  "  — At  last  he  raised  his  head 
And  murmur'd,  "  No  one  has  been  here." 
"  'Tis  false  I  "     Sebastian  bent  his  knee, 

And  clasp'd  his  hands  imploringly, 
And  said,  "  I  swear  \U  none  but  me  I" 


THE    PAINTER   OF    SEVILLE.  63 

"  List ! "  said  his  master :  "  I  would  know 
Who  enters  here  ;  there  have  been  found, 
Before,  rough  sketches  strewn  around, 

By  whose  bold  hand,  'tis  yours  to  show : 
See  that  to-night  strict  watch  you  keep, 
Nor  dare  to  close  your  eyes  in  sleep. 

If  on  to-morrow  morn  you  fail 
To  answer  what  I  ask, 

The  lash  shall  force  you  ;  do  you  hear? 
Hence  !  to  your  daily  task." 

'Twas  midnight  in  Seville ;  and  faintly  shone. 

From  one  small  lamp,  a  dim  uncertain  ray 
Within  Murillo's  study  ;  all  were  gone 

Who  there,  in  pleasant  tasks  or  converse  gay, 
Pass'd  cheerfully  the  morning  hours  away. 

'Twas  shadowy  gloom,  and  breathless  silence,  save 
That,  to  sad  thoughts  and  torturing  fear  a  prey. 

One  bright-eyed  boy  was  there, — Murillo's  little  slave 

Almost  a  child,  that  boy  had  seen 

Not  thrice  five  Summers  yet. 
But  genius  mark'd  the  lofty  brow. 

O'er  which  his  locks  of  jet 
Profusely  curl'd  ;  his  cheek's  dark  hue 
Proclaim'd  the  warm  blood  flowing  through 
Each  throbbing  vein,  a  mingled  tide. 
To  Africa  and  Spain  allied. 

*'  Alas  !  what  fate  is  mine  !  "  he  said. 

"  The  lash,  if  I  refuse  to  tell 
Who  sketch' d  those  figures  ;  if  I  do, 

Perhaps  e'en  more,  —  the  dungeon-cell ! " 
He  breathed  a  prayer  to  Heaven  for  aid ; 
It  came,  —  for,  soon  in  slumber  laid, 
He  slept,  until  the  dawning  day 
Shed  on  his  humble  couch  its  ray. 


CHOICE  ftEAblKGS. 

"  I'll  sleep  no  more  !  "  he  cried  ;  "  and  now 

Three  hours  of  freedom  I  may  gain, 
Before  my  master  comes  ;  for  then 

I  shall  be  but  a  slave  again. 
Three  blessed  hours  of  freedom  !  how 
Shall  I  employ  them? —  ah  !  e'en  now 
The  figure  on  that  canvas  traced 
Must  be  —  yes,  it  must  be  effaced." 

He  seized  a  brush ;  the  morning  light 
Gave  to  the  head  a  soften'd  glow : 

Gazing  enraptured  on  the  sight, 
He  cried,  "  Shall  I  efface  it?  — No ! 

That  breathing  lip  !  that  beaming  eye  ! 

Efface  them  ?  —  I  would  rather  die  !  " 

The  terror  of  the  humble  slave 

Gave  place  to  the  o'erpowering  flow 

Of  the  high  feelings  Nature  gave, — 
Which  only  gifted  spirits  know. 

He  touch'd  the  brow  —  the  lip ;  it  seem'd 

His  pencil  had  some  magic  power : 
The  eye  with  deeper  feeling  beam'd ; 

Sebastian  then  forgot  the  hour ! 
Forgot  his  master,  and  the  threat 

Of  punishment  still  hanging  o'er  him  ; 
For,  with  each  touch,  new  beauties  met 

And  mingled  in  the  face  before  him. 

At  length  'twas  finish'd  :  rapturously 
He  gazed,  —  could  aught  more  beauteous  be? 
Awhile  absorb'd,  entranced  he  stood. 
Then  started  ;  horror  chill'd  his  blood ! 
His  master  and  the  pupils  all 

Were  there  e'en  at  his  side ! 
The  terror-stricken  slave  was  mute,  — 

Mercy  would  be  denied, 


THE    PAINTER    OF    SEVILLE.  66 

E'en  could  he  ask  it ;  so  he  deem'd, 
And  the  poor  boy  half  lifeless  seem'd. 

Speechless,  bewilder'd,  for  a  space 
They  gazed  upon  that  perfect  face, 

Each  with  an  artist's  jo^^ ; 
At  length  Murillo  silence  broke, 
And  with  affected  sternness  spoke,  — 

"  Who  is  your  master,  boy?  " 
"You,  Senior,"  said  the  trembling  slave. 
"  Nay,  who,  I  mean,  instruction  gave, 
Before  that  Virgin's  head  you  drew  ?  " 
Again  he  answer'd,  "  Only  3'ou." 
"  I  gave  3"ou  none,"  Murillo  cried  ! 
"  But  I  have  heard,"  the  boy  replied, 

"  What  you  to  others  said." 
"  And  more  than  heard,"  (in  kinder  tone, 
The  painter  said;)    "  'tis  plainly  shown 

That  you  have  profited." 

"  What "  (to  his  pupils)  "  is  his  meed? 

Reward  or  punishment  ?  " 
"  Reward,  reward  !  "  they  warmly  cried. 

(Sebastian's  ear  was  bent 
To  catch  the  sounds  he  scarce  believed, 
But  with  imploring  look  received.) 
"  What  shall  it  be?  "   They  spoke  of  gold 

And  of  a  splendid  dress ; 
But  still  unmoved  Sebastian  stood, 

Silent  and  motionless. 

"  Speak  !  "  said  Murillo,  kindly  ;  "  choose 

Your  own  reward  :  what  shall  it  be? 
Name  what  you  wish,  I'll  not  refuse  ; 

Then  speak  at  once  and  fearlessly." 
"  O,  if  I  dared  !  "  —  Sebastian  knelt. 

And  feeUngs  he  could  not  control, 
(But  fear'd  to  utter  even  then,) 

With  strong  emotion  shook  his  soul. 


66  CHOICE    READINGSo 

"  Courage  !  "  his  master  said,  and  each 
Essaj'd,  in  kind,  half-whisper'd  speech, 
To  soothe  his  overpowering  dread. 
He  scarce!}'  heard,  till  some  one  said, 

"  Sebastian, —  ask,  —  you  have  3'our  choice, 
Ask  for  your  freedom  !  "  —  At  the  word, 

The  suppliant  strove  to  raise  his  voice : 
At  first  but  stifled  sobs  were  heard. 
And  then  his  prayer,  breathed  fervently, 

"  O  master,  make  my  father  free  !  " 
"  Him  and  thyself,  my  noble  boy  !  " 

"Warmly  the  painter  cried  : 
Raising  Sebastian  from  his  feet. 

He  press'd  him  to  his  side. 
"  Thy  talents  rare,  and  filial  love, 

E'en  more  have  fairl}'  won  ; 
Still  be  thou  mine  by  other  bonds,  — 

My  pupil  and  m^'  son." 

Murillo  knew,  e'en  when  the  words 

Of  generous  feeling  pass'd  his  lips, 
Sebastian's  talents  soon  must  lead 

To  fame,  that  would  his  own  eclipse  ; 
And,  constant  to  his  purpose  still. 

He  joy'd  to  see  his  pupil  gain. 
Beneath  his  care,  such  matchless  skill 

As  made  his  name  the  pride  of  Spain. 


POTENCY  OP  ENGLISH  WOKDS. 

John  S.   McIntosh. 

Seek  out  "acceptable  words";  and  as  ye  seek  them 
turn  to  our  English  stores.  Seeking  to  be  rich  in 
speech,  you  will  find  that  in  the  broad  ocean  of  oui 
English  literature  there  are  pearls  of  great  price,  oui 


POTENCY    OF    ENGLISH    WORDS.  67 

potent  English  words;  words  that  are  wizards  more 
mighty  than  the  old  Scotch  magician ;  words  that  are 
pictures  bright  and  moving  with  all  the  colouring  and 
circumstances  of  life ;  words  that  go  down  the  century 
like  battle  cries ;  words  that  sob  like  litanies,  sing  like 
larks,  sigh  like  zephyrs,  shout  like  seas.  Seek  amid  our 
exhaustless  stores  and  you  will  find  words  that  flash 
like  the  stars  of  the  frosty  sky,  or  are  melting  and  ten- 
der like  Love's  tear-filled  eyes;  words  that  are  fresh 
and  crisp  like  the  mountain  breeze  in  Autumn,  or  are 
mellow  and  rich  as  an  old  painting ;  words  that  are 
sharp,  unbending,  and  precise  like  Alpine  needle-points, 
or  are  heavy  and  rugged  like  great  nuggets  of  gold ; 
words  that  are  glittering  and  gay  like  imperial  gems,  or 
are  chaste  and  refined  like  the  face  of  a  Muse.  Search 
and  ye  shall  find  words  that  crush  like  the  battle-axe  of 
Richard,  or  cut  like  the  scimetar  of  Saladin ;  words  that 
sting  like  a  serpent's  fangs,  or  soothe  like  a  mother's 
kiss  ;  words  that  can  unveil  the  nether  depths  of  Hell, 
or  paint  out  the  heavenly  heights  of  purity  and  peace  ; 
words  that  can  recall  a  Judas;  words  that  reveal  the 
Christ. 

Here,  then,  you  have  to  stir,  enrich,  control,  and  culti- 
vate your  plastic  minds,  a  literature  that  embodies,  in 
the  most  perfect  forms  of  Elizabethan  words,  the  peer- 
less gentleness  of  a  Sidney,  the  unquailing  bravery  of 
a  Glanville,  the  quiet  majesty  of  a  Cecil,  the  dashing 
hardihood  of  a  Raleigh,  and  the  sublime  dignity  of  a 
Howard.  What  a  rich  field  of  supply  is  here  !  Here  is 
a  literature  that  is  marked  by  terseness  and  clearness, 
by  soberness  and  majesty,  by  sweetness  and  fullness  of 
expression  never  surpassed,  rarely  equalled.  Here  you 
have  for  your  guidance  and  enrichment  as  speakers  a 
field  of  literature  marked  in   one  department   by  the 


68  CHOICE    READINGS. 

piireness,  thoroughness,  and  cahnness  of  the  sage  who 
loves  rich,  deep,  but  strongly  ruled  speech,  and  shuns 
with  holy  scorn  all  strain  after  the  startling  or  striking; 
a  literature  marked  in  another  department  by  the  white 
glow  of  fiery  zeal,  the  rapid  rush  of  the  dauntless  will, 
and  by  the  passionate,  piercing  cry  of  the  deeply  stirred 
but  despairing  seer ;  a  literature  marked  in  another  de- 
partment by  short,  sharp  sentences,  by  pointed  anti- 
theses, striking  outbursts,  flashing  images.  This  is  the 
literature  that  presents  to  you  the  gathered  wealth  of 
the  English  tongue  ;  and  yet  this  vast  and  noble  library 
into  which  I  would  introduce  you,  far  from  exhausting, 
only  half  reveals  the  marvellous  riches  of  that  language 
whose  inexhaustible  stores  and  manifold  resources 
scarcely  one  amid  a  thousand  speakers  ever  more  than 
touches.  Before  us  stands  a  grand  instrument  of  count- 
less strings,  of  myriad  notes  and  keys,  and  we  are  con- 
tent with  some  few  hundreds,  and  these  not  the  purest, 
richest,  deepest,  sweetest.  If  you  would  be  strong  of 
speech,  master  more  of  these  notes ;  let  your  vocabulary 
be  rich,  varied,  pure,  and  proportionate  will  be  your 
power  and  attractiveness  as  speakers.  I  would  have 
you  deeply  impressed  by  the  force,  fullness,  and  flexi- 
bility of  our  noble  tongue,  where,  if  anywhere,  the 
gigantic  strength  of  thought  and  truth  is  wedded  to  the 
seraphic  beauty  of  perfect  utterance.  I  would  have  you 
fling  yourselves  unhesitatingly  out  into  this  great  fresh 
sea,  like  bold  swimmers  into  the  rolling  waves  of  ocean. 
It  will  make  you  healthy,  vigorous,  supple,  and  equal  to 
a  hundred  calls  of  duty.  I  would  have  you  cherish 
sacredly  this  goodly  heritage,  won  by  centuries  of  Eng- 
lish thought  and  countless  lives  of  English  toil.  I 
would  have  you  jealous,  like  the  apostle  over  the 
Church,  over  these  pure  wells  of  English  undefiled :  de- 


THE    BLIND    HIGHLAND    BOT.  69 

grade  not  our  sacred  tongue  by  slang ;  defile  not  its 
crystal  streams  with  the  foul  waters  of  careless  speech ; 
honour  its  stern  old  parentage,  obey  its  simple  yet  se- 
vere grammar,  watch  its  perfect  rhythm,  and  never  mix 
its  blue  blood,  the  gift  of  noblest  sires,  with  the  base 
puddle  of  any  mongrel  race  ;  never  speak  half  the  lan- 
guage of  Ashdod  and  half  of  Canaan,  but  be  ye  of  a 
pure  English  lip. 

THE  BLIND  HIGHLAND  BOY. 

William   Wordsworth. 
PART    I. 

A  HIGHLAND  boj  !  —  why  call  him  so  ? 
Because,  my  children,  ye  must  know 
That,  under  hills  which  rise  like  towers, 
Far  higher  than  these  hills  of  ours, 
He  from  his  birth  had  lived. 

He  ne'er  had  seen  one  earthly  sight, — 
The  Sun,  the  day,  the  stars,  the  night; 
Or  tree,  or  butterfly,  or  flower, 
Or  fish  in  stream,  or  bird  in  bower. 
Or  woman,  man,  or  child. 

And  yet  he  neither  droop'd  nor  pined, 
Nor  had  a  melancholy  mind ; 
For  God  took  pity  on  the  boy. 
And  was  his  friend,  and  gave  him  joy 
Of  which  we  nothing  know. 

His  mother,  too,  no  doubt,  above 
Her  other  children  hini  did  love  : 
For,  was  she  here,  or  was  she  there. 
She  thought  of  him  with  constant  care, 
And  more  than  mother's  love. 


70  CHOICE    READINGS. 

And  proud  she  was  of  heart,  when,  clad 
In  crimson  stockings,  tartan  plaid, 
And  bonnet  with  a  feather  gay, 
To  kirk  he  on  the  Sabbath  day 
Went  hand  in  hand  with  her. 

A  dog,  too,  had  he  ;  not  for  need, 
But  one  to  pla}'  with  and  to  feed ; 
Which  would  have  led  him,  if  bereft 
Of  company  or  friends,  and  left 
Without  a  better  guide. 

And  then  the  bagpipes  he  could  blow, 
And  thus  from  house  to  house  would  go ; 
And  all  were  pleased  to  hear  and  see, 
For  none  made  sweeter  melody 
Than  did  the  poor  blind  boy. 

Yet  he  had  many  a  restless  dream ; 
Both  when  he  heard  the  eagles  scream, 
And  when  he  heard  the  torrents  roar, 
And  heard  the  water  beat  the  shore 
Near  which  their  cottage  stood. 

Beside  a  lake  this  cottage  stood. 
Not  small  like  ours,  a  peaceful  flood ; 
But  one  of  mighty  size,  and  strange  ; 
That,  rough  or  smooth,  is  full  of  change, 
And  stirring  in  its  bed. 

For  to  this  lake,  by  night  and  day. 
The  great  sea-water  finds  its  way 
Through  long,  long  windings  of  the  hills 
And  drinks  up  all  the  pretty  rills, 
And  rivers  large  and  strong : 

Then  hurries  back  the  way  it  came,  — 
Returns,  on  errand  still  the  same  : 
This  did  it  when  the  Earth  was  new ; 
And  this  for  evermore  will  do 
As  long  as  Earth  shall  last. 


THE    BLIND    HIGHLAND    BOY. 

And,  with  the  comuig  of  the  tide, 
Come  boats  and  ships  that  safely  ride 
Between  the  woods  and  lofty  rocks  ; 
And  to  the  shepherds  with  their  flocks 
Bring  tales  of  other  lands. 

And  of  those  tales,  whate'er  they  were, 
The  blind  boy  always  had  his  share  ; 
Whether  of  mighty  towers,  or  vales 
With  warmer  suns  and  softer  gales, 
Or  wonders  of  the  Deep. 

Yet  more  it  pleased  him,  more  it  stirr'd, 
When  from  the  water-side  he  heard 
The  shouting,  and  the  jolly  cheers ; 
The  bustle  of  the  mariners 
In  stillness  or  in  storm. 

But  what  do  his  desires  avail? 
For  he  must  never  handle  sail ; 
Nor  mount  the  mast,  nor  row,  nor  float 
In  sailor's  ship,  or  fisher's  boat. 
Upon  the  rocking  waves. 

Thus  lived  he  by  Lock-Leven's  side 
Still  sounding  with  the  sounding  tide. 
And  heard  the  billows  leap  and  dance, 
Without  a  shadow  of  mischance, 
Till  he  was  ten  years  old. 

PART  n.— THE    BLIND    BOy's    SAIL    ON    THE    LAKE 

And  then,  one  day,  (now  mark  me  well, 
Ye  soon  shall  know  how  this  befell,) 
He,  in  a  vessel  of  his  own, 
On'tne  swift  flood  is  hurrying  down, 
Down  to  the  mighty  Sea. 


71 


72  CHOICE    READINGS. 

But,  say,  what  beai's  him?  —  Ye  have  seen 
The  Indian's  bow,  his  arrows  keen, 
Rare  beasts,  and  birds  with  phimage  bright; 
Gifts  which,  for  wonder  or  delight, 
Are  brought  in  ships  from  far. 

Such  gifts  had  those  seafaring  men 
Spread  round  that  haven  in  the  glen  ; 
Each  hut,  perchance,  might  have  its  own ; 
And  to  the  boy  they  all  were  known,  — 
He  knew  and  prized  them  all. 

The  rarest  was  a  turtle-shell 
Which  he,  poor  child,  had  studied  well. 
He'd  heard  how,  in  a  shell  like  this, 
An  English  boy,  O  thought  of  bliss  ! 
Had  stoutly  launch'd  from  shore. 

Our  Highland  boy  oft  visited 
The  house  that  held  this  prize  ;  and,  led 
By  choice  or  chance,  did  thither  come 
One  day  when  no  one  yvas  at  home. 
And  found  the  door  unbarr'd. 

While  there  he  sate,  alone  and  blind, 
That  story  flash'd  upon  his  mind  : 
A  bold  thought  roused  him  ;  and  he  took 
The  shell  from  out  its  secret  nook. 
And  bore  it  on  his  head. 

He  launch'd  his  vessel ;  and  in  pride 
Of  spirit,  from  Lock-Leven's  side, 
Stepp'd  into  it ;  his  thoughts  all  free 
As  the  light  breezes  that  with  glee 
Sang  through  th'  adventurer's  hair. 

Awhile  he  stood  upon  his  feet ; 

He  felt  the  motion,  —  took  his  seat ; 


THE    BLIND    HIGHLAND    BOT. 

Still  better  pleased,  as  more  and  more 
The  tide  retreated  from  the  shore, 
And  suck'd,  and  suck'd  him  in. 

And  there  he  is  in  face  of  Heaven. 
How  rapidly  the  child  is  driven ! 
The  fourth  part  of  a  mile,  I  ween, 
He  thus  had  gone,  ere  he  was  seen 
By  any  human  eye. 

But,  when  he  first  was  seen,  O  me, 
What  shrieking  and  what  misery  ! 
For  many  saw  :  among  the  rest 
His  mother,  she  who  loved  him  best, 
She  saw  her  poor  blind  boy. 

But,  for  the  child,  the  sightless  boy, 
It  is  the  triumph  of  his  joy  ! 
The  bravest  traveller  in  balloon. 
Mounting  as  if  to  reach  the  Moon, 
Was  never  half  so  blest. 

And  let  him,  let  him  go  his  way, 
Alone,  and  innocent  and  gay  ! 
For,  if  good  Angels  love  to  wait 
On  the  forlorn  unfortunate, 
This  child  will  take  no  harm. 

But  quickly  with  a  silent  crew 
A  boat  is  ready  to  pursue  ; 
And  from  the  shore  their  course  they  take. 
And  swiftly  down  the  running  lake 
They  follow  the  blind  boy. 

With  sound,  the  least  that  can  be  made, 
They  follow,  more  and  more  afraid, 
More  cautious  as  they  draw  more  near; 
But  in  his  darkness  he  can  hear, 
And  guesses  their  intent. 


73 


74  CHOICE    READINGS. 

"  Lei-gha^  lei-gha!"  he  theii  cried  out, 
'■'•  Lei-gha,  lei-gha!''  with  eager  shout: 
Thus  did  he  cry,  and  thus  did  pray. 
And  what  he  meant  was,  "  Keep  away, 
And  leave  rae  to  myself  !  " 

Alas  !  and  when  he  felt  their  hands,  — 
You've  often  heard  of  magic  wands, 
That  with  a  motion  overthrow 
A  palace  of  the  proudest  show, 
Or  melt  it  into  air  : 

So  all  his  dreams,  —  that  inward  light 
With  which  his  soul  had  shone  so  bright, 
All  vanish'd  :  'twas  a  heartfelt  cross 
To  him,  a  heavy,  bitter  loss, 
As  ever  he  had  known. 

But,  hark  !  a  gratulating  voice, 
With  which  the  very  hills  rejoice  : 
'Tis  from  the  crowd,  who  tremblingly 
Have  watch'd  th'  event,  and  now  can  see 
That  he  is  safe  at  last. 

And  in  the  general  joy  of  heart 
The  blind  boy's  little  dog  took  part : 
He  leapt  about,  and  oft  did  kiss 
His  master's  hands  in  sign  of  bliss. 
With  sound  like  lamentation. 

But,  most  of  all,  his  mother  dear. 
She  who  had  fainted  with  her  fear, 
Rejoiced  when,  waking,  she  espies 
The  child  ;  when  she  can  trust  her  eyes, 
And  touches  the  blind  boy, 

She  led  him  home,  and  wept  amain 
When  he  was  in' the  house  again  : 
Tears  flow'd  in  torrents  from  her  eyes  ; 
She  kiss'd  him,  —  how  could  she  chastise  ? 
She  was  too  happy  far. 


SIR    WALTER    SCOTT   AND    HIS    DOGS.  7.Q 

SIE  WALTEK   SOOTT  AND   HIS  DO&S. 

Washington  Irving. 

As  we  sallied  forth,  every  dog  in  the  establishment 
turned  out  to  attend  us.  There  was  the  old  staghound, 
Maida,  a  noble  animal ;  and  Hamlet,  the  black  grey- 
hound, a  wild,  thoughtless  youngster,  not  yet  arrived 
at  the  years  of  discretion ;  and  Finette,  a  beautiful 
setter,  with  soft,  silken  hair,  long  pendent  ears,  and 
a  mild  eye,  the  parlour  favourite.  When  in  front  of 
the  house,  we  were  joined  by  a  superannuated  grey- 
hound, who  came  from  the  kitchen  wagging  his  tail,  and 
was  cheered  by  Scott  as  an  old  friend  and  comrade. 
In  our  walks,  he  would  frequently  pause  in  conversa- 
tion, to  notice  his  dogs,  and  speak  to  them  as  if  rational 
companions :  and,  indeed,  there  appears  to  be  a  vast 
deal  of  rationality  in  these  faithful  attendants  on  man, 
derived  from  their  close  intimacy  with  him. 

Maida  deported  himself  with  a  gravity  becoming  his 
age  and  size,  and  seemed  to  consider  himself  called 
upon  to  preserve  a  great  degree  of  dignity  and  decorum 
in  our  society.  As  he  jogged  along  a  little  distance 
ahead  of  us,  the  young  dogs  would  gambol  about  him, 
leap  on  his  neck,  worry  at  his  ears,  and  endeavour  to 
tease  him  into  a  gambol.  The  old  dog  would  keep 
on  for  a  long  time  with  imperturbable  solemnity,  now 
and  then  seeming  to  rebuke  the  wantonness  of  his 
young  companions.  At  length  lie  would  make  a  sud- 
den turn,  seize  one  of  them,  and  tumble  him  in  the 
dust ;  then,  giving  a  glance  at  us,  as  much  as  to  say, 
"  You  see,  gentlemen,  I  can't  help  giving  way  to  this 
nonsense,"  he  would  resume  his  gravity,  and  jog  on  as 
before. 


76  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Scott  amused  himself  with  these  peculiarities.  "  I 
make  no  doubt,"  said  he,  "  when  Maida  is  alone  with 
these  young  dogs  he  throws  gravity  aside,  and  plays  the 
boy  as  much  as  any  of  them  ;  but  he  is  ashamed  to  do 
so  in  our  company,  and  seems  to  say,  '  Have  done  with 
your  nonsense,  youngsters :  what  will  the  laird  and  that 
other  gentleman  think  of  me  if  I  give  way  to  such 
foolery?'  " 

Scott  amused  himself  with  the  peculiarities  of  another 
of  his  dogs,  a  little  shamefaced  terrier,  with  large  glassy 
eyes,  one  of  the  most  sensitive  little  bodies  to  insult  and 
indignity  in  the  world.  If  ever  he  whi23t  him,  he  said, 
the  little  fellow  would  sneak  off  and  hide  himself  from 
the  light  of  day  in  a  lumber-garret,  from  whence  there 
was  no  drawing  him  forth  but  by  the  sound  of  the 
chopping-knife,  as  if  chopping  up  his  victuals,  when  he 
would  steal  forth  with  humiliated  and  downcast  look, 
but  would  skulk  away  again  if  any  one  regarded  him. 

While  we  were  discussing  the  humours  and  pecu- 
liarities of  our  canine  companions,  some  object  provoked 
their  spleen,  and  produced  a  sharp  and  petulant  barking 
from  the  smaller  fry ;  but  it  was  some  time  before 
Maida  was  sufficiently  roused  to  ramp  forward  two  or 
three  bounds,  and  join  the  chorus  with  a  deep-mouthed 
botv  ivow.  It  was  but  a  transient  outbreak,  and  he  re- 
turned instantly,  wagging  his  tail,  and  looking  up 
dubiously  in  his  master's  face,  uncertain  whether  he 
would  receive  censure  or  applause.  "  Ay,  ay,  old  boy  ! '' 
cried  Scott,  "  you  have  done  wonders ;  you  have  shaken 
Eildon  hills  with  your  roaring:  you  may  now  lay  by 
your  artillery  for  the  rest  of  the  day."  — ■  "  Maida,"  con- 
tinued lie,  "  is  like  the  great  gun  at  Coiistantinojjle :  it 
takes  so  long  to  get  it  ready,  that  the  smaller  guns  can 
fire  off  a  dozen  times  first;  but  when  it  does  go  off  it 
plays  the  very  devil." 


MORNING.  77 

These  simple  anecdotes  may  serve  to  show  the  de- 
lightful play  of  Scott's  humours  and  feelings  in  private 
life.  His  domestic  animals  were  his  friends.  Every- 
thing about  him  seemed  to  rejoice  in  the  light  of  his 
countenance. 

MOKNING. 

Daniel  Webster. 

Richmond,  April  29,  5  a.m.,  1847. 

Whether  it  be  a  favour  or  an  annoyance,  you  owe 
this  letter  to  my  habit  of  early  rising.  From  the  hour 
marked  at  the  top  of  the  page,  you  will  naturally  con- 
clude that  my  companions  are  not  now  engaging  my 
attention,  as  we  have  not  calculated  on  being  early 
travellers  to-day. 

This  city  has  "  a  pleasant  seat."  It  is  high ;  the 
James  river  runs  below  it ;  and  when  I  went  out  an 
hour  ago  nothing  was  lieard  but  the  roar  of  the  falls. 
The  air  is  tranquil,  and  its  temperature  mild. 

It  is  morning ;  and  a  morning  sweet  and  fresh  and 
delightful.  Everybody  knows  the  morning  in  its  meta- 
phorical sense,  applied  to  so  many  objects,  and  on  so 
many  occasions.  The  health,  strength,  and  beauty  of 
early  years  lead  us  to  call  that  period  "  the  morning  of 
life."  Of  a  lovely  young  woman  we  say,  she  is  "bright 
as  the  morning "  ;  and  no  one  doubts  why  Lucifer  is 
called  "  son  of  the  morning." 

But  the  morning  itself,  few  people,  inhabitants  of 
cities,  know  anything  abcmt.  Among  all  our  good  peo- 
ple of  Boston,  not  one  in  a  thousand  sees  the  Sun  rise 
once  a-year.  They  know  nothing  of  the  morning. 
Their  idea  of  it  is,  that  it  is  that  part  of  the  day  which 
comes  along  after  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  beefsteak,  or  a 


78  CHOICE    READINGS. 

piece  of  toast.  With  tliem,  morning  is  not  a  new  issuing 
of  light;  a  new  bursting-forth  of  the  Sun;  a  new 
waking-up  of  all  that  has  life,  from  a  sort  of  temporary 
death,  to  behold  again  the  works  of  God,  the  heavens 
and  the  earth :  it  is  only  a  part  of  the  domestic  day,  be- 
longing to  breakfast,  to  reading  the  newspapers,  answer- 
ing notes,  sending  the  children  to  p.chool,  and  giving 
orders  for  dinner.  The  first  faint  streaks  of  light  pur- 
pling the  East,  which  the  lark  springs  up  to  greet,  and 
the  deeper  and  deeper  colouring  into  orange  and  red, 
till  at  length  "the  glorious  Sun  is  seen,  regent  of  the 
day,"  —  this  they  never  enjoy,  for  this  they  never  see. 

Beautiful  descriptions  of  the  morning  abound  in  all 
languages ;  but  they  are  the  strongest  perhaps  in  those 
of  the  East,  where  the  Sun  is  so  often  an  object  of  wor- 
ship. King  David  speaks  of  taking  to  himself  "the 
wdngs  of  the  morning."  This  is  highly  poetical  and 
beautiful.  The  "  wings  of  the  morning  "  are  the  beams 
of  the  rising  Sun.  Rays  of  light  are  wings.  It  is  thus 
said  that  the  Sun  of  Righteousness  shall  arise  "with  heal- 
ing in  his  wings  "  ;  —  a  rising  Sun,  which  shall  scatter 
light  and  health  and  joy  throughout  the  Universe. 
Milton  has  fine  descriptions  of  morning,  but  not  so 
many  as  Shakespeare,  from  whose  writings  pages  of  the 
most  beautiful  images,  all  founded  on  the  glory  of  the 
morning,  might  be  gathered. 

I  never  thought  that  Adam  had  much  advantage  of 
us,  from  having  seen  the  world  while  it  was  new.  The 
manifestations  of  the  power  of  God,  like  His  mercies,  are 
"  new  every  morning,"  and  "  fresh  every  evening."  We 
see  as  fine  risings  of  the  Sun  as  ever  Adam  saw;  and  its 
risings  are  as  much  a  miracle  now  as  they  were  in  his 
day,  and,  I  thiid<,  a  good  deal  more,  because  it  is  now  a 
part  of  the  mu-acle  that  for  thousands  and  thousands  of 


FRIDAY  S    FROLIC    WITH    A    BEAK.  79 

years  he  has  come  at  liis  appointed  time,  without  the 
variation  of  a  miUionth  part  of  a  second.  Adam  could 
not  tell  how  this  might  be  ! 

I  know  the  morning;  I  am  acquainted  with  it,  and  I 
love  it,  fresh  and  sweet  as  it  is,  a  daily  new  creation, 
breaking  forth,  and  calling  all  that  have  life  and  breath 
and  bemg  to  new  adoration,  new  enjoyments,  and  new 
gratitude. 

FEIDAY'S   PEOLIO  WITH  A  BEAE. 

Daniel  Defoe. 

As  the  bear  is  a  heavy,  clumsy  creature,  and  does  not 
gallop  as  the  wolf  does,  who  is  swift  and  light,  so  he  has 
two  particular  qualities,  Avhich  generally  are  the  rule  of 
his  actions :  first,  as  to  men,  who  are  not  his  proper 
prey,  if  you  do  not  meddle  with  him,  he  will  not  meddle 
with  you :  but  then  you  must  take  care  to  be  very  civil 
to  him  and  give  liim  the  road,  for  he  is  a  very  nice  gen- 
tleman; he  will  not  go  a  step  out  of  his  way  for  a 
prince ;  nay,  if  you  are  really  afraid,  your  best  way  is  to 
look  another  way,  and  keep  going  on ;  for  sometimes,  if 
you  stop  and  stand  still,  and  look  steadfastly  at  him,  he 
takes  it  for  an  affront ;  but,  if  you  throw  or  toss  any- 
thing at  him,  and  it  hits  him,  though  it  were  but  a  bit  of 
stick  as  big  as  your  finger,  he  thinks  himself  abused, 
and  sets  all  other  business  aside  to  pursue  his  revenge, 
and  will  have  satisfaction  in  point  of  honour.  This  is 
his  first  quality :  the  next  is,  if  he  be  once  affronted,  he 
will  never  leave  you  night  uor  day,  till  he  has  his  re- 
venge, but  follows,  at  a  good  round  rate,  till  he  over- 
takes you. 

My  man  Friday  had  delivered  our  guide,  and,  when 


80  CHOICE     KEADINGS. 

we  came  up  to  him,  on  a  sudden,  we  espied  the  bear 
come  out  of  the  wood,  and  a  vast,  monstrous  one  it  was, 
the  biggest  by  far  that  ever  I  saw.  We  were  all  a  little 
surprised  when  we  saw  him ;  but,  when  Friday  saw  him, 
it  was  easy  to  see  joy  and  courage  in  the  fellow's  coun- 
tenance :  0,0,0!  says  Friday,  three  times,  pointing  to 
him ;  O  master !  you  give  me  te  leave,  me  shakee  te 
hand  with  him  ;    me  makee  you  good  laugh. 

I  was  surprised  to  see  the  fellow  so  well  pleased: 
You  fool,  says  I,  he  will  eat  you  up.  —  Eatee  me  up ! 
eatee  me  up !  says  Friday,  twice  over  again ;  me  eatee 
him  up ;  me  makee  you  good  laugh :  you  all  stay  here, 
me  show  you  good  laugh.  So  down  he  sits,  and  gets  off 
his  boots  in  a  moment,  and  puts  on  a  pair  of  pumps, 
gives  my  other  servant  liis  horse,  and  with  his  gun  away 
he  flew,  swift  like  the  wind. 

The  bear  was  walking  slowly  on,  and  offered  to  med- 
dle Avith  nobody,  till  Friday  coming  pretty  near,  calls  to 
him,  as  if  the  bear  could  understand  him,  Hark  ye,  hark 
ye,  says  Friday,  me  speakee  with  you.  We  followed  at 
a  distance ;  for  now  we  were  entered  a  great  forest, 
where  the  country  was  plain  and  pretty  open,  though  it 
had  many  trees  in  it  scattered  here  and  there.  Friday, 
who  had,  as  we  say,  the  heels  of  the  bear,  came  up  with 
him  (juickly,  and  takes  up  a  great  stone  and  throws  it 
at  him,  and  hit  him  just  on  the  head,  but  did  him  no 
more  harm  than  if  he  had  thrown  it  against  a  wall;  but 
it  answered  Friday's  end,  for  the  rogue  was  so  void  of 
fear  that  he  did  it  purely  to  make  the  bear  follow  him, 
and  show  us  some  laugh  as  he  called  it. 

As  soon  as  the  bear  felt  the  blow,  and  saw  him,  he 
turns  about,  and  comes  after  him,  taking  long  strides, 
and  shuffling  on  at  a  strange  rate,  such  as  would  have 
put  a  horse  to  a  middling  gallop;  away  runs  Friday, 


Friday's  frolic  with  a  bkar.  81 

and  takes  his  course  as  if  he  run  towards  us  for  help ;  so 
we  all  resolved  to  fire  at  once  upon  the  bear,  and  de- 
liver my  man ;  though  I  was  angry  at  him  heartily  for 
bringing  the  bear  back  upon  us,  when  he  was  going 
about  his  own  business  another  way ;  and  especially  I 
was  angry  that  he  had  turned  the  bear  upon  us,  and 
then  run  away ;  and  I  called  out,  You  dog,  is  tliis  your 
making  us  laugh?  Come  away,  and  take  your  horse, 
that  we  may  shoot  the  creature.  ■ 

He  heard  me,  and  cried  out.  No  shoot,  no  shoot; 
stand  still,  and  you  get  much  laugh ;  and  as  the  nimble 
creature  ran  two  feet  for  the  bear's  one,  he  turned  on  a 
sudden,  on  one  side  of  us,  and,  seeing  a  great  oak  tree 
fit  for  his  purpose,  he  beckoned  to  us  to  follow;  and 
doubling  his  pace,  he  gets  nimbly  up  the  tree,  laying  his 
gun  down  upon  the  ground,  at  about  five  or  six  yards 
from  the  bottom  of  the  tree.  The  bear  soon  came  to 
the  tree,  and  we  followed  at  a  distance  :  the  first  thing 
he  did,  he  stopped  at  the  gun,  smelt  to  it,  but  let  it  lie, 
and  up  he  scrambles  into  the  tree,  climbing  like  a  cat, 
though  so  monstrous  heavy.  I  was  amazed  at  the  folly, 
as  I  thought  it,  of  my  man,  and  could  not  for  my  life 
see  any  thing  to  laugh  at  yet,  till,  seeing  the  bear  get  up 
the  tree,  we  all  rode  near  to  him. 

When  we  came  to  the  tree,  there  was  Friday  got  out 
to  the  small  end  of  a  large  branch,  and  the  bear  got 
about  half  way  to  him.  As  soon  as  the  bear  got  out  to 
that  part  where  the  limb  of  the  tree  was  weaker,  —  Ha ! 
says  he  to  us,  now  you  see  me  teachee  the  bear  dance : 
so  he  falls  a-jumping  and  shaking  the  bough,  at  which 
the  bear  began  to  totter,  but  stood  still,  and  began 
to  look  Ijehind  him,  to  see  how  he  should  get  back; 
then,  indeed,  we  did  laugh  heartily.  But  Friday  liad 
not  done  with  him  by  a  great  deal ;  when,  seeing  him 


82  CHOICE    READINGS. 

stand  still,  he  calls  out  to  liim  again,  as  if  he  had  sup- 
posed the  bear  could  speak  English,  What,  3^ou  come  no 
further  ?  pray  you  come  further :  so  he  left  jumping  and 
shaking  the  tree ;  and  the  bear,  just  as  if  he  understood 
what  he  said,  did  come  a  little  further ;  then  he  fell  a- 
jumping  again,  and  the  bear  stopped  again. 

We  thought  now  was  a  good  time  to  knock  him  on 
the  head,  and  called  to  Friday  to  stand  still,  and  we 
would  shoot  the  bear-:  but  he  cried  out  earnestly,  O 
pray !  O  pray !  no  shoot,  me  shoot  by-and-then ;  he 
would  have  said  by-and-by.  However,  Friday  daaiced 
so  much,  and  the  bear  stood  so  ticklish,  that  we  had 
laughing  enough,  but  still  could  not  imagine  what  the 
fellow  would  do :  for  first  we  thought  he  depended 
upon  shaking  the  bear  off;  and  we  found  the  bear  was 
too  cunning  for  that  too ;  for  he  would  not  go  out  far 
enough  to  be  thrown  down,  but  clings  fast  with  liis 
great  broad  claws  and  feet,  so  that  we  could  not  im- 
agine what  would  be  the  end  of  it,  and  what  the  jest 
would  be  at  last. 

But  Friday  puts  us  out  of  doubt  quickly :  for,  seeing 
the  bear  cling  fast  to  the  bough,  and  that  he  would  not 
come  any  further.  Well,  well,  says  Friday,  you  no  come 
further,  me  go ;  you  no  come  to  me,  me  come  to  you  : 
and,  upon  this,  he  goes  out  to  the  smaller  end  of  the 
bough,  where  it  would  bend  with  his  weight,  and  gently 
lets  himself  down  by  it,  till  he  came  near  enough  to 
jump  down  on  his  feet,  and  away  he  runs  to  his  gun, 
takes  it  up,  and  stands  still.  Well,  said  I  to  him,  Fri- 
day, what  will  you  do  now  ?  Why  don't  you  shoot  him  ? 
—  No  shoot,  says  Friday,  no  yet ;  me  no  shoot  now,  me 
no  kill ;  me  stay,  give  you  one  more  laugh ;  and,  indeed, 
so  he  did :  for  when  the  bear  saw  his  enemy  gone,  he 
comes  back  from  the  l^ough  where  he  stood,  Ijut  did  it 


Crusoe's  fight  with  wolves.  83 

mighty  cautiously,  looking  behind  him  every  step,  and 
coming  backward  till  he  got  into  the  body  of  the  tree ; 
then,  with  the  same  hinder-end  foremost,  he  came  down 
the  tree,  grasping  it  with  his  claws,  and  moving  one  foot 
at  a  time,  very  leisurely.  At  this  juncture,  and  just  be- 
fore he  could  set  his  hind-foot  on  the  ground,  Friday 
stepped  up  close  to  him,  clapped  the  muzzle  of  his  piece 
into  his  ear,  and  shot  him  dead.  Then  the  rogue  turned 
about,  to  see  if  we  did  not  laugh ;  and  when  he  saw  we 
were  pleased,  by  our  looks,  he  falls  a  laughing  himself 
very  loud.  So  we  kill  bear  in  my  country,  says  Friday. 
So  you  kill  them?  says  I:  why,  you  have  no  guns. — 
No,  says  he,  no  gun,  but  shoot  great  much  long  arrow. 


OKUSOE'S  TIGHT  WITH  WOLVES. 

Daniel  Defoe. 

The  ground  was  still  covered  with  snow,  though  not 
so  deep  and  dangerous  as  on  the  mountains ;  and  the 
ravenous  creatures  were  come  down  into  the  forest  and 
plain  country  to  seek  for  food,  and  had  done  a  great 
deal  of  mischief  in  the  villages,  where  they  killed  a 
great  many  sheep  and  horses,  and  some  people  too. 
We  had  one  dangerous  place  to  pass,  of  which  our  guide 
told  us,  if  there  were  more  wolves  in  the  country  we 
should  find  them  there ;  and  this  was  a  small  plain,  sur- 
rounded with  woods  on  every  side,  and  a  long  narroAV 
defile,  or  lane,  which  we  were  to  pass  to  get  through  the 
wood,  and  then  we  should  come  to  the  village  where  we 
were  to  lodge.  It  was  within  half  an  hour  of  sunset 
when  we  entered  the  first  wood,  and  a  little  after  sunset 
when  we  came  into  the  plain. 

We  met  with  nothing  in  the  first  wood,  except  that, 


84  CHOICE    READINGS. 

in  a  little  plain  within  the  wood,  which  was  not  above 
two  furlongs  over,  we  saw  five  great  wolves  cross  the 
road,  full  speed  one  after  another,  as  if  they  had  been 
in  chase  of  some  prey,  and  had  it  in  view ;  they  took  no 
notice  of  us,  and  were  gone  out  of  sight  in  a  few  mo- 
ments. Upon  this  our  guide,  who,  by  the  way,  was  but 
a  faint-hearted  fellow,  bid  us  keep  in  a  ready  posture, 
for  he  believed  there  were  more  wolves  a-coming.  We 
kept  our  arms  ready,  and  our  eyes  about  us  ;  but  we 
saw  no  more  wolves  till  we  came  through  that  wood, 
which  was  near  half  a  league,  and  entered  the  plain. 

As  soon  as  we  came  into  the  plain,  we  had  occasion 
enough  to  look  about  us :  the  first  object  we  met  with 
was  a  dead  horse,  that  is  to  say,  a  poor  horse  which  the 
wolves  had  killed,  and  at  least  a  dozen  of  them  at  work, 
we  could  not  say  eating  of  him,  but  picking  of  his  bones 
rather;  for  they  had  eaten  up  all  the  flesh  before.  We 
did  not  think  fit  to  disturb  them  at  their  feast ;  neither 
did  they  take  much  notice  of  us.  Friday  would  have 
let  fly  at  them,  but  I  would  not  suffer  him  by  any 
means;  for  I  found  we  were  like  to  have  more  business 
upon  our  hands  than  we  were  aware  of. 

We  were  not  gone  half  over  the  plain,  when  we  be- 
gan to  hear  the  wolves  howl  in  the  wood  on  our  left  in 
a  friglitful  manner,  and  presently  after  we  saw  about  a 
hundred  coming  on  directly  towards  us,  all  in  a  body, 
and  most  of  them  in  a  line,  as  regularl}^  as  an  army 
draAvn  up  by  an  experienced  officer.  I  scarce  knew  in 
what  manner  to  receive  them,  but  found  to  draw  our- 
selves in  a  close  line  Avas  the  only  way :  so  we  formed 
in  a  moment:  but,  that  we  might  not  have  too  much 
interval,  I  ordered  that  only  every  other  man  should 
fire,  and  that  the  others  who  had  not  fired  should  stand 
ready  to  give  them  a  second  volley  immediately,  if  they 


Crusoe's  fight  with  avolves.  85 

continued  to  advance  upon  us ;  and  then  that  those 
who  had  fired  at  first  should  not  pretend  to  load  their 
fusees  again,  but  stand  ready  every  one  with  a  pistol,  for 
we  were  all  armed  with  a  fusee  and  a  pair  of  pistols 
each  man  :  so  we  were,  by  this  method,  able  to  fire  six 
volleys,  half  of  us  at  a  time. 

However,  at  present  we  had  no  necessity :  for,  upon 
the  first  volley,  the  enemy  made  a  full  stop,  being  terri- 
fied as  well  with  the  noise  as  with  the  fire ;  four  of 
them,  being  shot  in  the  head,  dropped ;  several  others 
were  wounded,  and  went  bleeding  off,  as  we  coidd  see 
by  the  snow.  I  found  they  stopped,  but  did  n<jt  im- 
mediately retreat ;  whereupon,  remembering  that  the 
fiercest  creatures  were  terrified  at  the  voice  of  a  man,  I 
caused  all  the  company  to  halloo  as  loud  as  we  could; 
and,  upon  our  shout,  they  began  to  retire,  and  turn 
about.  I  then  ordered  a  second  volley  to  be  fired  in 
their  rear,  which  put  them  to  the  gallop,  and  away  they 
went  to  the  woods.  This  gave  us  leisure  to  charge  our 
pieces  again;  and  we  had  but  little  more  than  loaded 
our  fusees,  and  put  ourselves  in  readiness,  when  we 
heard  a  terrible  noise  in  the  same  wood,  on  our  left, 
only  that  it  was  further  onward,  the  same  way  we  were 
to  go. 

The  night  was  coming  on,  and  the  light  began  to  be 
dusky,  which  made  it  worse  on  our  side  ;  but,  the  noise 
increasing,  we  could  easily  perceive  that  it  was  the 
howling  and  yelling  of  those  hellish  creatures ;  and  on 
a  sudden  we  perceived  two  or  three  troops  of  wolves, 
one  on  our  left,  one  behind  us,  and  one  in  our  front,  so 
that  we  seemed  to  be  surrounded  Avith  them :  however, 
as  they  did  not  fall  upon  us,  we  kept  our  way  forward, 
as  fast  as  we  could  make  our  horses  go,  which,  the  way 
being  very  rough,  was  only  a  good  hard  trot.     In  this 


86  CHOICE   READINGS. 

manner  we  came  in  view  of  the  entrance  of  the  wood, 
through  which  we  were  to  pass,  at  the  further  side  of 
the  plain ;  but  we  were  greatly  surprised,  when,  coming 
nearer  the  lane  or  pass,  we  saw  a  confused  number  of 
wolves  standing  just  at  the  entrance. 

This  filled  us  with  horror,  and  we  knew  not  what 
course  to  take ;  but  the  creatures  resolved  us  soon,  for 
they  gathered  about  us  presently,  in  hopes  of  prey ;  and 
I  verily  believe  there  were  three  hundred  of  them.  It 
happened  very  much  to  our  advantage,  that  at  the  en- 
trance into  the  wood,  there  lay  some  large  timber  trees, 
which  had  been  cut  down  the  Summer  before,  and  I  sup- 
pose lay  there  for  carriage.  I  drew  my  little  troop  in 
among  those  trees,  and,  placing  ourselves  in  a  line  be- 
hind one  long  tree,  I  advised  them  all  to  alight,  and, 
keeping  that  tree  before  us  for  a  breastwork,  to  stand 
in  a  triangle  or  three  fronts  enclosing  our  horses  in  the 
centre.  We  did  so,  and  it  was  well  we  did ;  for  never 
was  a  more  furious  charge  than  the  creatures  made 
upon  us  in  this  place.  They  came  on  with  a  growling 
kind  of  noise,  and  mounted  the  piece  of  timber,  which 
was  our  breastwork,  as  if  they  were  only  rushing  upon 
their  prey ;  and  this  fury  of  theirs,  it  seems,  was  princi- 
pally occasioned  by  their  seeing  our  horses  behind  us. 
I  ordered  our  men  to  fire  as  before,  every  other  man ; 
and  they  took  their  aim  so  sure,  that  they  killed  several 
of  the  wolves  at  the  first  volley ;  but  there  was  a  neces- 
sity to  keep  a  continual  firing,  for  they  came  on  like 
devils,  those  behind  pushing  on  those  before. 

When  we  had  fired  a  second  volley  of  our  fusees,  we 
thought  they  stopped  a  little,  and  I  hoped  they  would 
go  off;  but  it  was  but  a  moment,  for  others  came  for- 
ward again  :  so  we  fired  two  volleys  of  our  pistols  ;  and 
I  believe  in  these  four  firings  we  killed  seventeen  or 


Crusoe's  fight  with  wolves.  87 

eighteen  of  them,  and  lamed  twice  as  many,  yet  they 
came  on  again.  I  was  loth  to  spend  our  shot  too 
hastily ;  so  I  called  my  servant,  and,  giving  him  a  horn 
of  powder,  I  bade  him  lay  a  train  all  along  the  piece  of 
timber,  and  let  it  be  a  large  train. 

He  did  so  ;  and  had  but  just  time  to  get  away,  when 
the  wolves  came  up  to  it,  and  some  got  upon  it,  when 
I,  snapping  an  uncharged  pistol  close  to  the  powder,  set 
it  on  fire :  those  that  were  upon  the  timber  were  scorched 
with  it ;  and  six  or  seven  of  them  fell  or  rather  jumped 
in  among  us,  with  the  force  and  fright  of  the  fire :  we 
dispatched  these  in  an  instant,  and  the  rest  were  so 
frightened  with  the  light,  which  the  night,  for  it  was 
now  very  near  dark,  made  more  terrible,  that  they  drew 
back  a  little  ;  upon  which  I  ordered  our  last  pistols  to 
be  fired  off  in  one  volley,  and  after  that  we  gave  a 
shout:  upon  this  the  wolves  turned  tail,  and  we  sallied 
immediately  upon  near  twenty  lame  ones,  that  we  found 
struggling  on  the  ground,  and  fell  a  cutting  them  with 
our  swords,  which  answered  our  expectation ;  for  the 
crying  and  howling  they  made  was  better  understood 
by  their  fellows  ;  so  that  they  all  fled  and  left  us. 

We  had,  first  and  last,  killed  about  threescore  of 
them ;  and,  had  it  been  daylight,  we  had  killed  many 
more.  The  field  of  battle  being  thus  cleared,  we  made 
forward  again,  for  we  had  still  near  a  league  to  go.  We 
heard  the  ravenous  creatures  howl  and  yell  in  the 
woods  as  we  went,  several  times,  and  sometimes  we 
fancied  we  saw  some  of  them,  but,  the  snow  dazzling 
our  eyes,  we  were  not  certain :  in  about  an  hour  more 
we  came  to  the  town  where  we  were  to  lodge,  which  we 
found  in  a  terrible  fright,  and  all  in  arms ;  for,  the  night 
before,  the  wolves  and  some  bears  had  broke  into  the 
village,  and  put  them  in  :such   terror,  that  they  were 


88  CHOICE    READINGS. 

obliged  to  keep  guard  night  and  day,  but  especially  ir 
the  night,  to  preserve  their  cattle,  and,  indeed,  their 
people. 

LADY  OLAEA  VEEE  DE  VEEE. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 

Lady  Clura  Vere  de  Vere, 
Of  me  3011  shall  not  win  renown  : 
You  thought  to  break  a  country  heart 
For  pastime,  ere  you  went  to  town. 
At  me  you  smiled,  ])ut  unbeguiled 
I  saw  the  snare,  and  I  retired  : 
The  daughter  of  a  hundred  Earls, 
You  are  not  one  to  be  desired. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 
I  know  you  proud  to  bear  your  name ; 
Your  pride  is  3-et  no  mate  for  mine. 
Too  proud  to  care  from  whence  I  came : 
Nor  would  I  break  for  ^'our  sweet  sake 
A  heart  that  dotes  on  truer  charms. 
A  simple  maiden  in  her  flower 
Is  worth  a  hundred  coats-of-arms. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 
Some  meeker  pupil  you  must  find  ; 
For,  were  you  queen  of  all  that  is, 
I  could  not  stoop  to  such  a  mind. 
You  sought  to  prove  how  I  could  love, 
And  my  disdain  is  mv  repl}' : 
The  lion  on  your  old  stone  gates 
Is  not  more  cold  to  you  than  I, 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 
You  put  strange  memories  in  my  head  : 
Not  thrice  your  branching  limes  have  blown 
Since  I  beheld  young  Laurence  dead. 


LADY  CLARA  VERE  1)E  VKRE.  89 

O,  your  sweet  eyes,  3'our  low  replies  ! 
A  great  enchantress  j'ou  may  be  ; 
But  there  was  that  across  liis  throat 
Which  you  had  hardly  cared  to  see. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 
When  thus  he  met  his  mother's  view, 
She  had  the  passions  of  her  kind, 
She  spake  some  certain  truths  of  j'ou  : 
Indeed  I  heard  one  bitter  word 
That  scarce  is  fit  for  you  to  hear  ; 
Her  manners  had  not  that  repose 
Which  stamps  the  cast  of  Vere  de  Vere. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 
There  stands  a  spectre  in  3'our  hall : 
The  guilt  of  blood  is  at  your  door  ; 
You  changed  a  wholesome  heart  to  gall. 
You  held  your  course  without  remorse, 
To  make  him  trust  his  modest  worth ; 
And,  last,  you  fix'd  a  vacant  stare. 
And  slew  him  with  your  noble  birth. 

Trust  me,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

From  yon  blue  heavens  above  us  bent 

The  grand  old  gardener  and  his  wife 

Smile  at  the  claims  of  long  descent. 

Howe'er  it  be,  it  seems  to  me 

'Tis  only  noble  to  be  good  : 

Kind  hearts  are  more  than  coronets. 

And  simple  faith  than  Norman  blood. 

I  know  you,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere  : 

You  pine  among  your  halls  and  towers  ; 

The  languid  light  of  your  proud  eyes 

Is  wearied  of  the  rolling  hours. 

In  glowing  health,  with  boundless  wealth, 

But  sickening  of  a  vague  disease, 


90  CHOICE    READINGS. 

You  know  so  ill  to  deal  witli  time, 

You  needs  must  play  such  pranks  as  these. 

Clara,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 
If  Time  be  heavy  on  your  hands, 
Are  there  no  beggars  at  your  gate, 
Nor  any  poor  about  ^our  lands? 
O  !  teach  the  orphan-boy  to  read, 
Or  teach  the  orphan-girl  to  sew  ; 
Praj'  Heaven  for  a  human  heart, 
And  let  the  foolish  3'eoman  go. 

OTJE  TEA  YELLED   PAESON. 

Will  Carleton. 

For  twenty  years  and  over  our  good  parson  had  been  toiling 

To  chip  the  bad  meat  from  our  hearts,  and  keep  the  good  from 

spoiling ; 
But  finally  he  wilted  down,  and  went  to  looking  sickly, 
And  the  doctor  said  that  something  must  be  put  up  for  him  quickly. 

So  we  kind  of  clubb'd  together,  each  according  to  his  notion, 
And  bought  a  circular  ticket  in  the  lands  across  the  ocean; 
AVrapp'd  some  pocket  money  in  it, — -what  we  thought  would  easy 

do  him,  — 
And  appointed  me  committee-man  to  go  and  take  it  to  him. 

I  found  him  in  his  study,  looking  rather  worse  than  ever, 
And  told  him  'twas  decided  that  his  flock  and  he  should  sever: 
Then  his  eyes  grew  wide  with  wonder,  and  it  seem'd  almost  to 

blind  'em ; 
And  some  tears   look'd   out  o'  window,  with   some  others   close 

behind  'em. 

Then  I  handed  him  the  ticket,  with  a  little  bow  of  deference ; 
And  he  studied  quite  a  little  ere  he  got  his  proper  reference; 
And  then  the  tears  that  waited,  great  vnunanageable  creatures. 
Let  themselves  quite  out  o'  window,  and  came  trickling  down  his 
features. 

I  wish  you  could  ha'  seen  him,  coming  back  all  fresh  and  glowing, 
His  clothes  so  worn  and  seedy,  and  his  face  so  fat  and  knowing ; 
I  wish  you  could  hav(;  heard  him  when  he  pray'd  for  us  who  sent  him. 
And  paid  us  back  twice  over  all  the  money  we  had  lent  him. 


OUR  TRAVFXLED    PARSON.  9l 

Twas  a  feast  to  all  believers,  'twas  a  bliglit  on  contradiction, 

To  hear  one  just  from  Calvary  talk  about  the  crucifixion  ; 

'Twas   a   damper    on   those   fellows    wlio    pretended    they    could 

doubt   it, 
To  have  a  man,  who'd  been  tliere,  stand  and  tell  tliem  all  about  it, 

Paul,  maybe,  beat  our  pastor  in  the  Bible  knots  unravelling, 
And  establishing  new  chui'ches ;  but  he  couldn't  touch  hun  trav- 
elling ; 
Xor  in  his  journeys  pick  up  half  the  general  information ; 
But  then  he  hadn't  the  railroads  and  the  steamboat  navigation. 

And  every  foot  of  Scripture  whose  location  used  to  stump  us 
Wa^  now  regularly  laid  out,  with  the  different  points  of  compass. 
Wlion  he  undertook  a  picture,  he  quite  natural  would  draw  it ; 
He  would  paint  it  out  so  honest  that  it  seem'd  as  if  j'ou  saw  it. 

An'  the  way  he   chisell'd   Em-ope,  —  O,  the   way  he   scamper'd 

through   it ! 
Not  a  mountain  dodged  his  climbing,  not  a  city  but  he  knew  it : 
There  wasn't  any  subject  to  explain  in  all  creation, 
But  he  could  go  to  Europe  and  bring  back  an  illustration. 

So  we  crowded  out  to  hear  him,  much  instructed  and  delighted ; 

'Twas  a  picture-show,  a  lecture,  and  a  sermon,  all  united ; 

And  my  wife  would  wipe  her  glasses,  and  serenely  pat  her  Test'- 

ment, 
And  whisper,  "  That  ei'e  ticket  was  a  very  good  investment." 

Now,  after  six  months'  travel  we  were  most  of  us  all  ready 
To  settle  down  a  little,  so's  to  live  more  staid  and  steady ; 
To  develop  home  resources,  with  no  foreign  cares  to  fret  us. 
Using  home-made  faith  more  frequent;  but  the  parson, wouldn't 
let  us. 

To  view  the  self-same  scenery  time  and  time  agam  he'd  call  us ; 
Over  rivers,  plains,  and  mountains  he  would  any  nunute  haid  us ; 
lie  slighted  our  home  sorrows,  and  our  spu-its'  aches  and  aUings, 
To  get  the  cargoes  ready  for  his  reg'lar  Sunday  sailings. 

He  would  take  us  off  a-touring  in  all  spiritual  weather. 

Till  we  at  last  got  homesick-liie,  and  seasick  altogether; 

And  "I  wish  to   all   that's  peaceful,"  said  one   free-expressiou'd 

brother, 
"That  the  Lord  had  made  one  cont'nent,  and  then  never  made 

another ! " 

Sometimes,  indeed,  he'd  take  us  into  sweet,  familiar  places, 

Antl  pull  along  quite  steady  in  the  good  old  gospel  traces; 
But  soon  my  wife  would  shudder,  just  as  if  a  chill  had  got  her. 
Whispering,  "  C^,   my  goodness    gracious  1    he's    a-talon'   to  the 
water  1 " 


92  CHOICE    READINGS. 

And  it  wasn't  the  same  old  comfort  when   he  call'd  around   to 

see  us; 
On  a  branch  of  foreign  travel  he  was  sure  at  last  to  tree  us; 
All  unconscious  of  his  error,  he  would  sweetly  patronize  us, 
And  with  oft-repeated  stories  still  endeavour  to  surprise  us. 

And  the  sinners   got   to   laughing;   and  that  fin'lly  gall'd   and 

stung  us 
To  ask  him,  "  Would  he  kindly  once  more  settle  down  among  us  ? 
Didn't  he  think  that  more  home-produce  would  improve  our  souls' 

digestions  ?  " 
They  appointed  me  committee-man  to  go  and  ask  the  questions. 

I  found  him  in  his  garden,  trim  an'  buoyant  as  a  feather ; 

He  press'd  my  hand, exclaiming,  "This  is  quite  Italian  weather; 

How  it  'minds  me  of    the   evenings   when,   your   distant  hearts 

caressing. 
Upon  my  benefactors  I  invoked  the  heavenly  blessing !  " 

I  went  and  told  the  brothers,  "  No,  T  cannot  bear  to  grieve  him  ; 
He's  so  happy  in  his  exile,  it's  the  proper  place  to  leave  him. 
I  took  that  journey  to  hun,  and  right  bitterly  I  rue  it ; 
But  I  cannot  take  it  from  him :  if  you  want  to,  go  and  do  it." 

Now  a  new  restraint  entirely  seem'd  next  Sunday  to  infold  him, 
And  he  look'd  so  hurt  and  humbled  that  I  knew  some  one  had  told 

him. 
Subdued-like  was  his  manner,  and  some  tones  were  hardly  vocal ; 
But  every  word  he  utter'd  was  pre-eminently  local. 

The  sermon  sounded  awkward,  and  we  awkward  felt  who  heard  it : 
'Twas  a  grief  to  see  him  hedge  it,  'twas  a  pain  to  hear  him  word  it : 
"  "NVlien  I  was  in —  "  was,  maybe,  half  a  dozen  times  repeated, 
But  that  sentence  seem'd  to  scare  him,  and  was  always  uncom 
pleted. 

As  weeks  went  on,  his  old  smile  would  occasionally  brighten, 
But  the  voice  was  growing  feeble,  and  the  face  began  to  whiten  : 
He  would  look  oif  to  the  eastward  with  a  listful,  weary  sighing ; 
And  'twas  whisper'd  that  our  pastor  in  a  foreign  land  was  dying. 

The  coffin  lay  'mid  garlands  smiling  sad  as  if  they  knew  us ; 
The  patient  face  within  it  preach'd  a  final  sermon  to  us : 
Our  parson  had  gone  touring  on  a  trip  he'd  long  been  earning, 
In  that  wonder-land  whence  tickets  are  not  issued  for  returning. 

O  tender,  good-soul'd  shepherd!  your  sweet  smiling  lips,  half- 
parted. 

Told  of  scenery  that  burst  on  you  just  the  minute  that  you  started  I 

Could  you  preach  once  more  among  us,  you  might  wander  without 
fearing ; 

You  could  give  us  tales  of  glory  we  would  never  tire  of  hearing. 


HAPPINESS    OF    ANIMALS.  93 

HAPPINESS   OF  ANIMALS, 

William  Cowper. 

Here  unmolested,  through  whatever  sign 

The  Sun  proceeds,  I  wander ;  neither  mist, 

Nor  freezing  skj-  nor  sultry,  checking  me, 

Nor  stranger  intermeddling  with  my  joy. 

Even  in  the  Spring  and  playtime  of  the  year, 

That  calls  th'  unwonted  villager  abroad 

With  all  her  little  ones,  a  sportive  train, 

To  gather  kingcups  in  the  yellow  mead, 

These  shades  are  all  my  own.     The  timorous  hare, 

Grown  so  familiar  with  her  frequent  guest. 

Scarce  shuns  me  ;  and  the  stockdove  unalarm'd 

Sits  cooing  in  the  pine-tree,  nor  suspends 

His  long  love-ditty  for  my  near  approach. 

Drawn  from  his  refuge  in  some  lonel}^  elm 

That  age  or  injury  has  hollow'd  deep. 

Where  on  his  bed  of  wool  and  matted  leaves 

He  has  outslept  the  Winter,  ventures  forth. 

To  frisk  awhile,  and  bask  in  the  warm  sun. 

The  squirrel,  flippant,  pert,  and  full  of  pla}'. 

He  sees  me,  and  at  once,  swift  as  a  bird. 

Ascends  the  neighbouring  beech  ;  there  whisks  his  brush 

And  perks  his  ears,  and  stamps  and  scolds  aloud, 

With  all  the  prettiness  of  feign 'd  alarm. 

And  anger  insignificantl}'  fierce. 

The  heart  is  hard  in  nature,  and  unfit 
For  human  fellowship,  as  being  void 
Of  sympath}',  and  therefore  dead  alike 
To  love  and  friendship  both,  that  is  not  pleased 
With  sight  of  animals  enjoying  life, 
Nor  feels  their  happiness  augment  his  own. 
The  bounding  fawn  that  darts  across  the  glade 
When  none  pursues,  through  mere  delight  of  heart 


94  CHOICE   READINGS. 

And  spirits  buoyant  with  excess  of  glee ; 

The  horse,  as  wanton  and  almost  as  fleet, 

That  skims  the  spacious  meadow  at  full  speed, 

Then  stops  and  snorts,  and,  throwing  high  his  heels, 

Starts  to  the  voluntary  race  again  ; 

The  very  kine  that  gambol  at  high  noon. 

The  total  herd  receiving  first,  from  one 

That  leads  the  dance,  a  summons  to  be  gay, 

Though  wild  their  strange  vagaries,  and  uncouth 

Their  efforts,  yet  resolved  with  one  consent 

To  give  such  act  and  utterance  as  they  may 

To  ecstasy  too  big  to  be  suppress'd ;  — ■ 

These,  and  a  thousand  images  of  bliss. 

With  which  kind  Nature  graces  every  scene 

Where  cruel  man  defeats  not  her  design, 

Impart  to  the  benevolent,  who  wish 

All  that  are  capable  of  pleasure  pleased, 

A  far  superior  happiness  to  theirs,  — 

The  comfort  of  a  reasonable  joy. 


GENEVIEVE. 


95 


n. 

LOVE,   BEAUTY,   TRANQUILLITY. 


GENEVIEVE. 

S.  T.  Coleridge. 

Maid  of  my  Love,  sweet  Genevieve ! 

In  Beauty's  light  you  glide  along  ; 

Your  eye  is  like  the  star  of  eve. 

And  sweet  your  Voice  as  Seraph's  song. 

Yet  not  your  heavenly  Beauty  gives 

This  heart  with  passion  soft  to  glow : 

Within  your  soul  a  Voice  there  lives  ! 

It  bids  you  hear  the  tale  of  Woe. 

When  sinking  low  the  Sufferer  wan 

Beholds  no  hand  outstretch'd  to  save, 

Fair,  as  the  bosom  of  the  Swan 

That  rises  graceful  o'er  the  wave, 

I've  seen  your  breast  with  pity  heave. 

And  therefore  love  I  you,  sweet  Genevieve ! 


All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights. 
Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 
AU  are  but  ministers  of  Love, 
And  feed  his  sacred  flame. 

Oft  in  my  waking  dreams  do  I 
Live  o'er  again  that  happy  hour. 
When  midway  on  the  mount  I  lay. 
Beside  the  ruin'd  tower. 


96  CHOICE    READINGS. 

The  moonshine,  stealing  o'er  tlie  scene, 
Had  blended  with  the  lights  of  eve  ; 
And  she  was  there,  ray  hope,  my  joy, 
My  own  dear  Genevieve  ! 

She  lean'd  against  the  armfed  man, 
The  statue  of  the  arm^d  knight ; 
She  stood  and  listen'd  to  my  lay, 
Amid  the  lingering  light. 

Few  sorrows  hath  she  of  her  own, 
My  hope,  my  joy,  my  Genevieve  ! 
She  loves  me  best,  whene'er  I  sing 
The  songs  that  make  her  grieve. 

I  play'd  a  soft  and  doleful  air, 
I  sang  an  old  and  moving  story,  — 
An  old  rude  song,  that  suited  well 
That  ruin  wild  and  hoary. 

She  listen'd  with  a  flitting  blush. 
With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace  ? 
For  well  she  kuew  I  could  not  choose 
But  gaze  upon  her  face. 

I  told  her  of  the  Knight  that  wore 
Upon  his  shield  a  burning  brand  ; 
And  that  for  ten  long  years  he  woo'd 
The  Lady  of  the  Land. 

I  told  her  how  he  pined  ;  and,  ah  ! 
The  deep,  the  low,  tlie  pleading  tone 
With  which  I  sang  another's  love 
Interpreted  ni}-  own. 

She  listen'd  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace  ; 
And  she  forgave  me,  that  I  gazed 
Too  fondly  on  her  face  ! 


GENEVIEVE. 


97 


But  when  I  told  the  cruel  scorn 
That  crazed  that  bold  aud  lovely  Knight, 
And  that  he  cross'd  the  mountain-woods, 
Nor  rested  day  nor  night ; 

That  sometimes  from  the  savage  den, 
And  sometimes  from  the  darksome  shade, 
And  sometimes  starting  up  at  once 
In  green  and  sunny  glade,  — 

There  came  and  look'd  him  in  the  face 
An  angel  beautiful  and  bright ; 
And  that  he  knew  it  was  a  Fiend, 
This  miserable  Knight ; 

And  that,  unknowing  what  he  did. 
He  leap'd  amid  a  murderous  band. 
And  saved  from  outrage  worse  than  death 
The  Lady  of  the  Land  ;  — 

And  how  she  wept,  and  clasp' d  his  knees ; 
And  how  she  tended  him  in  vain,  — 
And  ever  strove  to  expiate 

That  scorn  that  crazed  his  brain  ;  — 

And  that  she  nursed  him  in  a  cave  ; 
And  how  his  madness  went  away, 
When  on  the  yellow  forest-leaves 
A  dying  man  he  lay  ;  — 

His  dying  words,  —  but  when  I  reach'd 
That  teuderest  strain  of  all  the  ditty. 
My  faltering  voice  and  pausing  harp 
Disturb' d  her  soul  with  pity ! 

All  impulses  of  soul  and  sense 
Had  thrill'd  my  guileless  Genevieve  i 
The  music  aud  the  doleful  tale, 
The  rich  and  balmy  eve  ; 


98  CHOICE    READINGS. 

And  hopes,  and  fears  that  kindle  hope. 
And  undistinguishable  throng, 
And  gentle  wishes  long  subdued, 
Subdued  and  cherish'd  long  ! 

She  wept  with  pity  and  delight, 
She  blush'd  with  love  and  virgin-shame : 
And,  like  the  murmur  of  a  dream, 
I  heard  her  breathe  my  name. 

Her  bosom  heaved,  —  she  stepp'd  aside. 
As  conscious  of  my  look  she  stepp'd,  — 
Then  suddenly,  with  timorous  eye, 
She  fled  to  me  and  wept. 

She  half  enclosed  me  with  her  arms. 
She  press'd  me  with  a  meek  embrace ; 
And,  bending  back  her  head,  look'd  up. 
And  gazed  upon  my  face. 

'Twas  partly  love,  and  partly  fear. 
And  partly  'twas  a  bashful  art, 
That  I  might  rather  feel  than  see 
The  swelling  of  her  heart. 

I  calm'd  her  fears,  and  she  was  calm, 
And  told  her  love  with  virgin-pride  ; 
And  so  I  won  my  Genevieve, 
My  bright  and  beauteous  Bride. 


t>>««o 


SEEN,  LOVED,  WEDDED. 

William  Wordsworth. 

She  was  a  Phantom  of  delight 
When  first  she  gleam'd  upon  my  sight; 
A  lovely  Apparition,  sent 
To  be  a  moment's  ornament: 


MR.  GRAHAM  AND  LADY  CLEMENTINA.  99 

Her  eyes  as  stars  of  twilight  fair ; 
Like  twilight's,  too,  her  dusky  hair ; 
But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 
From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  Dawn ; 
A  dancing  Shape,  an  Image  gay. 
To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  waylay. 

I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 

A  Spirit,  yet  a  Woman  too  ! 

Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 

And  steps  of  A'irgin  liberty  ; 

A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 

Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet ; 

A  creature  not  too  bright  or  good 

For  human  nature's  daily  food ; 

For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles. 

And  now  I  see  with  eye  serene 
The  verj^  pulse  of  the  machine  ; 
A  Being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 
A  Traveller  between  life  and  death  ; 
The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will. 
Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill ; 
A  perfect  Woman,  nobly  plann'd 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command ; 
And  yet  a  Spirit  still,  and  bright 
With  something  of  an  angel  light. 

OOj^JOO — 

ME.   GEAHAM  AM)  LADY  CLEMENTINA. 

George  MacDonald. 

Him  only  in  all  London  must  slie  see  to  bid  good-bye. 
As  usual  now,  she  was  shown  into  liis  room, — his  only 
one.  As  usual  also,  she  found  him  poring  over  his 
Greek     Testament.      The    gracious,    graceful    woman 


100  CHOICE    READINGS. 

looked  lovelily  strange  in  that  mean  chamber,  like  an 
opal  in  a  brass  ring.  There  was  no  such  contrast  be- 
tween the  room  and  its  occupant.  His  bodily  jDresence 
was  too  weak  to  "stick  fiery  off"  from  its  surround- 
ings ;  and,  to  the  eye  that  saw  through  the  bodily  pres- 
ence to  the  inherent  grandeur,  that  grandeur  suggested 
no  discrepancy,  being  of  the  kind  that  lifts  everything 
to  its  own  level,  casts  the  mantle  of  its  own  radiance 
over  its  surroundings.  Still,  to  the  eye  of  love  and  rev- 
erence, it  was  not  pleasant  to  see  him  in  such  entourage, 
and,  now  that  Clementina  was  going  to  leave  him,  the 
ministering  spirit  that  dwelt  in  the  woman  was  troubled. 

"Ah ! "  he  said,  and  rose  as  she  entered,  "  this  is  then 
the  angel  of  my  deliverance  !  "  But  with  such  a  smile 
he  did  not  look  as  if  he  had  much  to  be  delivered  from. 
"  You  see,"  he  went  on,  "  old  man  as  I  am,  and  peace- 
ful, the  Summer  will  lay  hold  upon  me.  She  stretches 
out  a  long  arm  into  this  desert  of  houses  and  stones, 
II  nd  sets  me  longing  after  the  green  fields  and  the  living 
air  —  it  seems  dead  here  —  and  the  face  of  God,  as  much 
as  one  may  behold  of  the  Infinite  through  the  revealing 
veil  of  earth  and  sky  and  sea.  I  was  even  getting  a 
little  tired  of  that  glorious  God-and-man  lover,  Saul  of 
Tarsus :  no,  not  of  him,  never  of  Am,  only  of  his  shadow 
in  his  words.  Yet  perhaps  —  yes,  I  think  so  —  it  is  God 
alone  of  whom  a  man  can  never  get  tired.  Well,  no 
matter :  tired  I  was,  when,  lo !  here  comes  my  pupil, 
with  more  of  God  in  her  face  than  all  the  worlds  and 
their  skies  He  ever  made." 

"  I  would  my  heart  were  as  full  of  Him  too,  then, 
sir,"  answered  Clementina.  "  But,  if  I  am  anything  of 
a  comfort  to  you,  I  am  more  than  glad  ;  therefore  the 
more  sorry  to  tell  you  that  I  am  going  to  leave  you, 
though  for  a  little  while  only,  I  trust." 


MR.    GRAHAM    AND    LADY    CLEMENTINA.  101 

"  You  do  not  take  me  by  surprise,  my  lady.  I  have 
of  course  been  looking  forward  for  some  time  to  my  loss 
and  your  gain.  The  world  is  full  of  little  deaths, — 
deaths  of  all  sorts  and  sizes,  rather  let  me  say.  For 
this  one  I  was  prepared.  The  good  summer-land  calls 
you  to  its  bosom,  and  you  must  go." 

"  Come  with  me,"'  cried  Clementina,  her  eyes  eager 
with  the  light  of  a  sudden  thought,  while  her  heart  re- 
proached her  grievously  that  only  now  first  had  it  come 
to  her. 

"  A  man  must  not  leave  the  most  irksome  work  for 
the  most  peaceful  pleasure,"  answered  the  schoolmaster. 
"  I  am  able  to  live  —  3^es,  and  do  my  work  —  without 
you,  my  lady,"  he  added  with  a  smile,  "  though  I  shall 
miss  you  sorely." 

"  But  you  do  not  know  where  I  want  you  to  come," 
she  said. 

"  What  difference  can  that  make,  my  lady,  except  in- 
deed m  the  amount  of  pleasure  to  be  refused,  seeing 
this  is  not  a  matter  of  choice  ?  I  must  be  with  the  chil- 
dren whom  I  have  engaged  to  teach,  and  whose  parents 
pay  me  for  my  labour ;  not  with  those  who,  besides,  can 
do  well  without  me." 

"  I  cannot,  sir,  —  not  for  long  at  least." 

"  What !    not  with  Malcolm  to  supply  my  place  ?  " 

Clementina  blushed,  but  only  like  a  white  rose.  She 
did  not  turn  her  head  aside  :  she  did  not  lower  their 
lids  to  veil  the  light  she  felt  mount  into  her  eyes :  she 
looked  him  gently  in  the  face  as  before,  and  her  aspect 
of  entreaty  did  not  change.  "  Ah  !  do  not  be  unkind, 
master,"  she  said. 

"  Unkind  !  "  he  repeated.  "  You  know  I  am  noL  I 
have  more  kindness  in  my  heart  than  my  lips  can  tell. 
You  do  not  know,  you  could  not  yet  imagine,  the  half 
of  what  I  hope  of  and  for  and  from  you." 


102  CHOICE   READINGS. 

"I  am  going  to  see  Malcolm,"  she  said  with  a  little 
sigh.  "  That  is,  I  am  going  to  visit  Lady  Lossie  at  her 
place  in  Scotland,  —  your  own  old  home,  where  so  many 
must  love  you.  Cant  you  come ?  I  shall  be  travelling 
alone,  quite  alone,  except  my  servants." 

A  shadow  came  over  the  schoolmaster's  face  :  "  You 
do  not  thmk^  my  lady,  or  you  would  not  press  me.  It 
pains  me  that  you  do  not  see  at  once  it  would  be  dis- 
honest to  go  without  timely  notice  to  my  pupils,  and  to 
the  public  too.  But,  beyond  that,  I  go  not  where  I 
wish,  but  where  I  seem  to  be  called  or  sent.  I  never 
even  wish  much,  except  when  I  pray  to  Him  in  whom 
are  hid  all  the  treasures  of  wisdom  and  knowledge. 
After  what  He  wants  to  give  me  I  am  wishing  all  day 
long.  I  used  to  build  many  castles,  not  without  a 
beauty  of  their  own,  —  that  was  when  I  had  less  under- 
standing, —  now  I  leave  them  to  God  to  build  for  me : 
He  does  it  better,  and  they  last  longer.  See  now,  this 
very  hour,  when  I  needed  help,  could  I  have  contrived 
a  more  lovely  annihilation  of  the  monotony  that  threat- 
ened to  invade  my  weary  spirit  than  this  inroad  of  light 
in  the  person  of  my  Lady  Clementina?  Nor  will  He 
allow  me  to  get  overwearied  with  vain  efforts.  I  do 
not  think  He  will  keep  me  here  long,  for  I  cannot  do 
much  for  these  children.  They  are  but  some  of  His 
many  j^agans,  —  not  yet  quite  ready  to  receive  Chris- 
tianity, I  think,  —  not  like  children  with  some  of  the  old 
seeds  of  the  truth  buried  in  them,  that  want  to  be 
turned  uj)  nearer  to  the  light.  True,  I  might  be  hap- 
pier where  I  could  hear  the  larks ;  but  I  do  not  know 
that  anywhere  I  have  been  more  peaceful  than  in  this 
little  room,  in  which  I  see  you  so  often  cast  round  your 
eyes  curiously,  j)erhaps  j)itifully,  my  lady." 

"  It  is  not  at  all  a  fit  place  for  ?/om,"  said  Clementina, 
with  a  touch  of  indignation. 


MR.  GRAHAM  AND  LADY  CLKMKNTINA.         103 

"  Softly,  my  lady,  lest,  without  knowing  it,  your  love 
should  make  you  sin.  Who  set  thee,  I  pray,  for  a 
guardian  angel  over  my  welfare  ?  I  could  scarce  have  a 
lovlier,  true  ;  but  where  is  thy  brevet  ?  No,  my  lady  : 
it  is  a  greater  than  thou  that  sets  me  the  bounds  of  my 
habitation.  Perhaps  He  may  give  me  a  palace  one  day. 
If  I  might  choose,  it  would  be  things  that  belong  to  a 
cottage, — the  whiteness  and  the  greenness  and  the  sweet 
odours  of  cleanliness.  But  the  Father  has  decreed  for 
His  children  that  they  shall  know  the  thing  that  is 
neither  their  ideal  nor  His.  But  perhaps,  my  lady,  you 
would  not  pity  my  present  condition  so  much,  if  you 
had  seen  the  cottage  in  which  I  was  born,  and  where 
my  father  and  mother  loved  each  other,  and  died  hap- 
pier than  on  their  wedding-day.     When  do  you  go  ?  " 

"  To-morrow  morning,  as  I  purpose." 

"  Then  God  be  with  thee  !  He  is  with  thee,  only  my 
prayer  is  that  thou  mayst  know  it." 

"  Tell  me  one  thing  before  I  go,"  said  Clementina : 
"  are  we  not  commanded  to  bear  each  other's  burdens, 
and  so  fulfil  the  law  of  Christ  ?  I  read  it  to-day." 

"  Then  why  ask  me  ?  " 

"  For  another  question  :  does  not  that  involve  the 
command  to  those  who  have  burdens,  that  they  should 
allow  others  to  bear  them?" 

"  Surely,  my  lady.  But  /have  no  burden  to  let  you 
bear." 

"Why  should  I  have  everything  and  you  nothing? 
Answer  me  that." 

"  My  lady,  I  have  millions  more  than  you,  for  I  have 
been  gathering  the  crumbs  under  my  Master's  table  for 
thirty  years." 

"  You  are  a  king,"  answered  Clementina.  "  But  a 
king  needs  a  handmaiden  somewhere  in  his  house  :  that 


104  CHOICE    READINGS. 

let  me  be  in  yours.  No,  I  will  be  proud,  and  assert  my 
rights:  I  am  your  daughter.  If  not,  why  am  I  here? 
You  cannot  cast  me  off  if  you  would.  Why  should  you 
be  poor  when  I  am  rich  ?  You  are  poor ;  you  cannot 
deny  it,"  she  concluded  with  a  serious  playfulness. 

"I  will  not  deny  my  privileges,"  said  the  school- 
master, with  a  smile  such  as  might  have  acknowledged 
the  j)ossession  of  some  exquisite  and  envied  rarity. 

"  I  believe,"  insisted  Clementina,  "  you  are  just  as 
poor  as  the  apostle  Paul  when  he  sat  down  to  make  a 
tent,  or  as  our  Lord  himself  after  He  gave  up  carpen- 
tering." 

"You  are  wrong  there,  my  lady.  I  am  not  so  poor 
as  they  must  often  have  been." 

"  But  I  don't  know  how  long  I  may  be  away,  and 
you  may  fall  ill,  or  —  or  —  see  some  —  some  book  you 
want  very  much,  or  —  " 

"  I  never  do,"  said  the  schoolmaster. 

"  What !   never  see  a  book  you  want  to  have  ?  " 

"No,  not  now.  I  have  my  Greek  Testament,  my 
Plato,  and  my  Shakespeare,  and  one  or  two  little  books 
besides  whose  wisdom  I  have  not  yet  quite  exhausted." 

"  I  can't  bear  it ! "  cried  Clementina,  almost  on  the 
point  of  weeping.  ''Let  me  be  your  servant."  As  she 
spoke  she  rose,  and,  walking  softly  to  him  where  he  sat, 
kneeled  at  Ids  knees  and  held  out  suppliantly  a  little 
bag  of  white  silk  tied  Avith  crimson.  "  Take  it,  — 
father,"  she  said,  hesitating;  "take  your  daughter's 
offering, — ^a  poor  thing  to  show  her  love,  but  some- 
thing to  ease  her  heart." 

He  took  it,  and  weighed  it  up  and  down  in  his  hand 
with  an  amused  smile,  bent  his  eyes  full  on  her  tears. 
It  was  heavy.  He  emptied  it  on  the  seat  of  a  chair. 
"  I  never  saw  so  much  gold  in  my  life,  if  it  were  all  taken 


MR.  GRAHAM  AND  LADY  CLKMENTINA.         105 

together,"  he  said.  "  But  I  don't  want  it,  my  dear.  It 
would  trouble  me."  As  he  spoke  he  began  to  put  it  in 
the  bag  again.  "  You  will  want  it  for  your  journey," 
he  said. 

"I  have  plenty  in  my  reticule,"  she  answered.  "  That 
is  a  mere  nothing  to  what  I  could  have  for  writing  a 
cheque.  Tell  me  true  :  how  much  money  have  you  ?  " 
She  said  tliis  with  such  an  earnest  look  of  simple  love, 
that  tlie  schoolmaster  made  haste  to  rise,  that  he  miglit 
conceal  his  growing  emotion. 

"  Rise,  my  dear  lady,"  he  said  as  he  rose  liimself, 
"  and  I  will  show  you."  He  gave  her  his  hand,  and  she 
obeyed,  but  troubled  and  disappointed,  and  so  stood 
looking  after  him  while  he  went  to  a  drawer.  Thence, 
searching  in  a  corner  of  it,  he  brought  a  half-sovereign, 
a  few  shillings,  and  some  coppers,  and  held  them  out  to 
her  on  his  hand  with  the  smile  of  one  who  has  proved 
his  point.  "  There  !  "  he  said,  "  do  you  think  Saint  Paul 
would  have  stopped  preaching  to  make  a  tent  so  long 
as  he  had  as  much  as  that  in  his  pocket  ?  " 

Clementina  had  been  struggling  with  herself:  now 
she  burst  into  tears. 

"  Why,  what  a  misspending  of  precious  sorrow !  "  ex- 
claimed the  schoolmaster.  "Do  you  think  because  a 
man  has  not  a  gold-mine  he  must  die  of  hunger?"  As 
he  spoke  he  took  her  handkerchief  from  her  hand,  and 
dried  her  tears  with  it.  But  he  had  enough  to  do  to 
keep  back  his  own.  "  Because  I  won't  take  a  bag  full 
of  gold  from  you  when  I  don't  want  it,"  he  went  on, 
"  do  you  think  I  should  let  myself  starve  mthout  com- 
ing to  you  ?  I  promise  you  I  will  let  you  know  —  come 
to  you  if  I  can  —  the  moment  I  get  too  hungry  to  do 
my  work  well,  and  have  no  money  left.  Should  I  tliink 
it  a  disgrace  to   take   money  from  you?    That  would 


106  CHOICE    READINGS. 

show  a  poverty  of  spirit  such  as  I  hope  never  to  fall 
into.  My  sole  reason  for  refusing  now  is  that  I  do  not 
need  it." 

But  for  all  his  loving  words  and  assurances  Clemen- 
tina could  not  stay  her  tears. 

"  See,  then,  for  your  tears  are  hard  to  bear,  my  daugh- 
ter," he  said,  "  I  will  take  one  of  these  golden  ministers ; 
and,  if  it  has  flown  from  me  ere  you  come,  I  will  ask 
you  for  another.  It  may  be  God's  will  that  you  should 
feed  me  for  a  time." 

A  moment  of  silence  followed,  broken  only  by  Clem- 
entina's failures  in  quieting  herself. 

"To  me,"  he  resumed,  "the  sweetest  fountain  of 
money  is  the  hand  of  love,  but  a  man  has  no  right  to 
take  it  from  that  fountain  excejjt  he  is  in  want  of  it.  I 
am  not." 

He  opened  again  the  bag,  and  slowly,  reverentially 
indeed,  drew  from  it  one  of  the  new  sovereigns,  put  it 
in  his  pocket,  and  laid  the  bag  on  the  table. 

"  But  your  clothes  are  shabby,  sir,"  said  Clementina, 
looking  at  him  with  a  sad  little  shake  of  the  head. 

"Are  they?"  he  returned,  and  looked  down  at  his 
lower  garments,  reddening  and  anxious.  "If  you  tell 
me,  my  lady,  if  you  honestly  tell  me,  that  my  garments  " 
—  and  he  looked  at  the  sleeve  of  his  coat  —  "are  un- 
sightly, I  will  take  of  your  money  to  buy  me  a  new 
suit."  Over  his  coat-sleeve  he  regarded  her,  ques- 
tioning. 

"  Everything  about  you  is  beautiful,"  she  burst  out. 
"  You  want  nothing  but  a  body  that  lets  the  light 
through."  She  took  the  hand  still  raised  in  his  survey 
of  his  sleeve,  pressed  it  to  her  lips,  and  walked  slowly 
from  the  room. 

He  took  the  bag  of  gold  from  the  table,  and  followed 


THE    BRIDGE.  107 

her  down  the  stair.  Her  chariot  was  waiting  for  her  at 
the  door.  He  handed  her  in,  and  laid  tlie  bag  on  tlie 
little  seat  in  front. 

THE  BEIDGE. 

H.  W.  Longfellow. 

I  STOOD  on  the  bridge  at  midnight, 
As  the  clocks  were  striking  the  hour. 

And  the  Moon  rose  o'er  the  city, 
Behind  the  dark  church- tower. 

I  saw  her  bright  reflection 

In  the  waters  under  me, 
Like  a  golden  goblet  falling 

And  sinking  into  the  sea. 

And,  far  in  the  hazy  distance 

Of  that  lovely  night  in  June, 
The  blaze  of  the  flaming  furnace 

Gleam'd  redder  than  the  Moon. 

Among  the  long,  black  rafters 

The  wavering  shadows  lay. 
And  the  current  that  came  from  the  ocean 

Seem'd  to  lift  and  bear  them  away ; 

As,  sweeping  and  eddying  through  them, 

Rose  the  belated  tide. 
And,  streaming  into  the  moonlight, 

The  sea-weed  floated  wide. 

And,  like  those  waters  rushing 

Among  the  wooden  piers, 
A  flood  of  thoughts  came  o'er  me 

That  fill'd  my  eyes  with  tears. 


108  CHOICE   READINGS. 

How  often,  O,  how  often, 

In  the  da^'s  that  had  gone  b}', 

I  had  stood  on  that  bridge  at  midnight, 
And  gazed  on  that  wave  and  sky ! 

How  often,  O,  how  often, 

I  had  wish'd  that  the  ebbing  tide 

Would  bear  me  away  on  its  bosom 
O'er  the  ocean  wild  and  wide  ! 

For  my  heart  was  hot  and  restless. 
And  my  life  was  full  of  care, 

And  the  burden  laid  upon  me 
Seem'd  greater  than  I  could  beai 

But  now  it  has  fallen  fi'om  me. 

It  is  buried  in  the  sea  ; 
And  only  the  sorrow  of  others 

Throws  its  shadow  over  me. 

Yet,  whenever  I  cross  the  river 
On  its  bridge  with  wooden  piers. 

Like  the  odour  of  brine  from  the  oceaa 
Comes  the  thought  of  other  years. 

And  I  think  how  many  thousands 
Of  care-encumber'd  men, 

Each  bearing  his  burden  of  sorrow, 
Have  cross'd  the  bridge  since  then, 

I  see  the  long  procession 

Still  passing  to  and  fro, 
The  3'oung  heart  hot  and  restless, . 

And  the  old  subdued  and  slow ! 

And  forever  and  forever, 
As  long  as  the  river  flows. 

As  long  as  the  heart  has  passions, 
As  long  as  life  has  woes  : 


THE   CHILDREK. 


109 


The  Moon  and  its  broken  reflection 
And  its  sliadows  shall  appear, 

As  the  symbol  of  love  in  Heaven, 
And  its  wavering  image  here. 


oJOio 


THE  OHILDEEN. 

Charles  Dickens. 

When  the  lessons  and  tasks  are  all  ended, 

And  the  school  for  the  day  is  dismiss'd. 
And  the  little  ones  gather  around  me, 

To  bid  me  "  good  night"  and  be  kiss'd ; 
O,  the  little  white  arms  that  encircle 

My  neck  in  a  tender  embrace  ; 
O,  the  smiles  that  are  halos  of  Heaven, 

Shedding  sunshine  of  love  on  my  face. 

And  when  they  are  gone  I  sit  dreaming 

Of  my  childhood  too  lovely  to  last ; 
Of  love  that  my  heart  will  remember, 

While  it  wakes  to  the  pulse  of  the  past,  - 
Ere  the  world  and  its  wickedness  made  me 

A  partner  of  son-ow  and  sin  ; 
When  the  glory  of  God  was  about  me, 

And  the  glory  of  gladness  within. 

O,  my  heart  gi-ows  as  weak  as  a  woman's, 

'And  the  fountains  of  feeling  will  flow, 
When  I  think  of  the  paths  steep  and  stony 

Where  the  feet  of  the  dear  ones  must  go, 
Of  the  mountains  of  sin  hanging  o'er  them, 

Of  the  tempest  of  fate  blowing  wild ; 
O,  there's  nothing  on  Earth  half  so  holy 

As  the  innocent  heart  of  a  child. 

They  are  idols  of  hearts  and  of  households  •, 
They  are  angels  of  God  in  disguise ; 


no  CHOICE   READINGS. 

His  sunlight  still  sleeps  in  their  tresses ; 

His  glory  still  gleams  in  their  ejes. 
O,  those  truants  from  home  and  from  Heaven, 

They  have  made  me  more  maul}'  and  mild, 
And  I  know  now  how  Jesus  could  liken 

The  Kingdom  of  God  to  a  child. 

I  ask  not  a  life  for  the  dear  ones 

All  radiant,  as  others  have  done  ; 
But  that  life  ma}'  have  just  enough  shadow 

To  temper  the  glare  of  the  Sun  ; 
I  would  pray  God  to  guard  them  from  evil, 

But  my  prayer  would  bound  back  to  myself ; 
O,  a  seraph  may  pray  for  a  sinner, 

But  a  sinner  must  pray  for  himself. 

The  twig  is  so  easily  bended, 

I  have  banish' d  the  rule  and  the  rod ; 
I  have  taught  them  the  goodness  of  knowledge. 

They  have  taught  me  the  wisdom  of  God. 
M}'  heart  is  a  dungeou  of  darkness, 

Where  I  shut  them  from  breaking  a  rule  ; 
M}'  frown  is  sufficient  correction  ; 

My  love  is  the  law  of  the  school. 

I  shall  leave  the  old  house  in  the  Autumn, 

To  traverse  its  threshold  no  more ; 
Ah  !  how  I  shall  sigh  for  the  dear  ones 

That  muster'd  each  morn  at  the  door ! 
I  shall  miss  the  "  good-nights"  and  the  kisses. 

And  the  gush  of  their  innocent  glee. 
The  group  on  the  green,  and  the  flowers 

That  are  brought  every  morning  to  me. 

I  shall  miss  them  at  morn  and  at  eve, 
Their  song  in  the  school  and  the  street ; 

I  shall  miss  the  low  hum  of  their  voices, 
And  the  tramp  of  their  delicate  feet. 


IMMORTALITY    OF    LOVE.  Ill 

When  the  lessons  and  tasks  are  all  ended, 
And  Death  says,  "  the  school  is  dismiss'd  !  " 

May  the  little  ones  gather  around  me. 
To  bid  me  "good  night "  and  be  kiss'd. 

[It  is  stated  that  the  above  Poem  was  found  in  the  desk 
of  Charles  Dickens  after  his  death.] 


IMMOETALITY  OF  LOVE. 

Robert  Southey. 

Three  happy  beings  are  there  here, 
The  Sire,  the  Maid,  the  Gleudoveer: 
A  fourth  approaches  ;  —  Who  is  this 
That  enters  in  the  Bower  of  Bliss  ? 
No  form  so  fair  might  painter  find 
Among  the  daughters  of  mankind  ; 
For  death  her  beauties  hath  refined. 
And  unto  her  a  form  hath  given 
Framed  of  the  elements  of  Heaven,  — ■ 
Pure  dwelling-place  for  perfect  miud. 
She  stood  and  gazed  on  Sire  and  Child  ; 
Her  tongue  not  yet  had  power  to  speak. 
The  tears  were  streaming  down  her  cheek 
And  when  those  tears  her  sight  beguiled, 
And  still  her  faltering  accents  fail'd, 
The  Spirit,  mute  and  motionless, 
Spread  out  her  arms  for  the  caress, 
Made  still  and  silent  with  excess 
Of  love  and  painful  happiness. 

The  Maid  that  lovely  foi-m  survey'd; 
Wistful  she  gazed,  and  knew  her  not, 
But  Nature  to  her  heart  convey'd 
A  sudden  thrill,  a  startling  thought, 
A  feeling  many  a  year  forgot, 
Now  like  a  dream  anew  recurring, 


112  CIIOICK    UKADINGS. 

As  if  again  in  every  vein 
Her  motlier's  milk  were  stirring. 
With  straining  neck  and  earnest  eye 
Slie  stretcli'd  her  liands  imploring!}-, 
As  if  she  fain  would  have  her  nigh, 
Yet  fear'd  to  meet  the  wish'd  embrace. 
At  once  with  love  and  awe  opprest. 
Not  so  Ladurlad  :  he  could  trace, 
Though  brighten'd  with  angelic  grace, 
His  own  Yedillian's  earthly  face : 
He  ran  and  held  her  to  his  breast. 
O  jo}'  above  all  joys  of  Heaven, 
B}'  death  alone  to  others  given. 
This  moment  hath  to  him  restored 
The  early-lost,  the  long-deplored  ! 

The}-  sin  who  tell  us  Love  can  die  : 

With  life  all  other  passions  fly, 

All  others  are  but  vanit}- : 

In  Heaven  Ambition  cannot  dwell, 

Nor  Avarice  in  the  vaults  of  Hell ; 

Earthly  these  passions  of  the  Earth, 

They  perish  where  they  have  their  birth ; 

But  LoA^e  is  indestructible. 

Its  hoh'  flame  forever  burneth. 

From  Heaven  it  came,  to  Heaven  returneth 

Too  oft  on  Earth  a  troubled  guest, 

At  times  deceived,  at  times  opprest, 

It  here  is  tried  and  purified, 

Then  hath  in  Heaven  its  perfect  rest : 

It  soweth  here  with  toil  and  care, 

But  th*  harvest  time  of  Love  is  there. 


THE    ASTROLOGICAL    TOWER.  113 

THE  ASTROLOGICAL  TOWER. 

Schiller:    Translated 6y  Coleridge. 

It  was  a  strange 
Sensation  that  came  o'er  me,  when  at  first 
From  the  broad  sunshine  I  stepp'd  in  ;  and  now 
The  narrowing  line  of  da3'light,  that  ran  after 
The  closing  door,  was  gone  ;  and  all  about  me 
'Twas  pale  and  dusky  night,  with  many  shadows 
Fantastically  cast.     Here  six  or  seven 
Colossal  statues,  and  all  kings,  stood  round  me 
In  a  half-circle.     Each  one  in  his  hand 
A  sceptre  bore,  and  on  his  head  a  star ; 
And  in  the  tower  no  other  light  was  there 
But  from  these  stars  :  all  seem'd  to  come  from  them 
''  Tliese  are  the  planets,"  said  that  low  old  man  ; 
"  They  govern  worldly  fates,  and  for  that  cause 
Are  imaged  here  as  kings.     He  farthest  from  3'ou, 
Spiteful  and  cold,  an  old  man  melancholy, 
With  bent  and  yellow  forehead,  he  is  Saturn. 
He  opposite,  the  king  with  the  red  Hglit, 
An  arm'd  man  for  the  battle,  that  is  Mars  ; 
And  both  these  bring  but  little  luck  to  man." 
But  at  his  side  a  lovely  lady  stood ; 
The  star  upon  her  head  was  soft  and  bright. 
And  that  was  Venus,  the  bright  star  of  joy. 
On  the  left  hand,  lo  !  Mercury,  with  wings  : 
Quite  in  the  middle  glitter'd  silver  bright 
A  cheerful  man,  and  with  a  monarch's  mien  ; 
And  this  was  Jupiter,  my  father's  star : 
And  at  his  side  I  saw  the  Sun  and  Moon. 

O,  never  rudely  will  I  blame  his  faith 

In  the  might  of  stars  and  angels  !     'Tis  not  merely 

The  human  being's  Pride  that  peoples  space 

With  life  and  mystical  predominance  ; 

Since  likewise  for  tlie  stricken  heart  of  Love 


114  CHOICE   READINGS. 

This  visible  Nature,  and  this  common  world, 

Is  all  too  narrow  ;  yea,  a  deeper  import 

Lurks  in  the  legend  told  my  infant  years 

Than  lies  upon  that  truth,  we  live  to  learn. 

For  fable  is  Love's  world,  his  home,  his  birth-place ; 

Delightedly  dwells  he  'raong  fays  and  talismans 

And  spirits  ;  and  delightedl}'  believes 

Divinities,  being  himself  divine. 

Th'  intelligible  forms  of  ancient  poets, 

The  fair  humanities  of  old  religion, 

The  Power,  the  Beauty,  and  the  Majesty, 

That  had  their  haunts  in  dale,  or  piny  mountain, 

Or  forest  by  slow  stream,  or  pebbly  spring. 

Or  chasms  and  watery  depths,  —  all  these  have  vanish'd  ; 

They  live  no  longer  in  the  faith  of  reason  ! 

But  still  the  heart  doth  need  a  language,  still 

Doth  the  old  instinct  bring  back  the  old  names ; 

And  to  3on  starry  world  they  now  are  gone, 

Spirits  or  gods,  that  used  to  share  this  Earth 

With  man  as  with  their  friend  ;  and  to  the  lover 

Yonder  they  move,  from  yonder  visible  sky 

Shoot  influence  down  :  and  even  at  this  day 

'Tis  Jupiter  who  brings  whate'er  is  great, 

And  Venus  who  brings  everything  that's  fair. 

A  LOST  OHOED. 

Adelaide  Anne  Proctor. 

Seated  one  day  at  the  organ, 

I  was  weary  and  ill  at  ease, 
And  my  fingers  wander'd  idly 

Over  the  noisy  keys. 

I  do  not  know  what  I  was  pla3'ing, 
Or  what  I  was  dreaming  then. 

But  I  struck  one  chord  of  music, 
Like  the  sound  of  a  great  Amen. 


MEMORY. 


115 


It  flooded  the  crimson  twilight, 

Like  the  close  of  an  angel's  psalm, 

And  it  lay  on  my  fever' d  spirit, 
With  a  touch  of  infinite  calm. 

It  quieted  pain  and  sorrow, 
Like  love  overcoming  sti'if  e  ; 

It  seem'd  the  harmonious  echo 
From  our  discordant  life. 

It  link'd  all  perplex'd  meanings 

Into  one  perfect  peace, 
And  trembled  away  into  silence, 

As  if  it  were  loth  to  cease. 

I  have  sought,  but  I  seek  it  vainly. 
That  one  lost  chord  divine. 

That  came  from  the  soul  of  the  organ, 
And  enter'd  into  mine. 

It  may  be  that  Death's  bright  angel 
Will  speak  in  that  chord  again ; 

It  may  be  that  only  in  Heaven 
I  shall  hear  that  grand  Amen. 


MEMOKY. 

James  A.  Ga-^field. 

'Tis  beauteous  night ;  the  stars  look  brightly  down 

Upon  the  Earth,  deck'd  in  her  robe  of  snow. 

No  light  gleams  at  the  windows,  save  my  own. 

Which  gives  its  cheer  to  midnight  and  to  me. 

And  now,  with  noiseless  step,  sweet  memory  comes 

And  leads  me  gently  through  her  twilight  realms. 

What  poet's  tuneful  lyre  has  ever  sung, 

Or  delicatest  pencil  e'er  portray'd 

Th'  enchanted,  shadowy  land  where  memory  dwells? 


116  CHOICE    READINGS. 

It  has  its  valleys,  cheerless,  lone,  and  drear, 

Dark-shaded  by  the  mournful  cypress-tree  ; 

And  yet  its  sunlit  mountain-tops  are  bathed 

In  heaven's  own  blue.     Upon  its  craggy  cliffs, 

Robed  in  the  dreamy  light  of  distant  years, 

Are  cluster'd  joys  serene  of  other  days. 

Upon  its  gently  sloping  hillsides  bend 

The  weeping  willows  o'er  the  sacred  dust 

Of  dear  departed  ones  ;  yet  in  that  land, 

Where'er  our  footsteps  fall  upon  the  shore, 

They  that  were  sleeping  rise  from  out  the  dust 

Of  death's  long,  silent  years,  and  round  us  stand 

As  erst  they  did  before  the  prison-tomb 

Received  their  clay  within  its  voiceless  halls. 

The  heavens  that  bend  above  that  land  are  hung 

With  clouds  of  various  hues.     Some  dark  and  chill. 

Surcharged  with  sorrow,  cast  their  somber  shade 

Upon  the  sunny,  joyous  land  below. 

Others  are  floating  through  the  dreamy  air. 

White  as  the  falling  snow,  their  margins  tinged 

With  gold  and  crimson'd  hues  ;  their  shadows  fall 

Upon  the  flowery  meads  and  sunny  slopes. 

Soft  as  the  shadow  of  an  angel's  wing. 

When  the  rough  battle  of  the  day  is  done. 

And  evening's  peace  falls  gently  on  the  heart, 

I  bound  away,  across  the  noisy  years. 

Unto  the  utmost  verge  of  memory's  land, 

Where  earth  and  sky  in  dream}-  distance  meet. 

And  memory  dim  with  dark  oblivion  joins  ; 

Where  woke  the  first  remcunber'd  sounds  that  fell 

Upon  the  ear  in  childliood's  earl}'  morn  ; 

And,  wandering  thence  along  the  rolling  years, 

I  see  the  shadow  of  m}'  former  self 

Gliding  from  childhood  up  to  man's  estate. 

The  path  of  youth  winds  down  through  many  a  vale, 

And  on  the  brink  of  majiy  a  dread  abyss. 

From  out  whose  darkness  comes  no  ray  of  light. 


OVKK    THK    jaVKR.  117 

Save  tliiit  a  phantom  dances  o'er  the  gulf 
And  beckons  toward  the  verge.     Again  th(^  path 
Leads  o'er  tht;  suinniit  wliere  the  sunbeams  fall ; 
And  thus  in  light  and  shade,  sunshin(!  and  gloom, 
iSorrow  and  joy,  tiiis  lile-path  leads  along. 

TEAES,   IDLE    TEARS. 

Ai.i](BD  Tennyson. 

Tkars,  idle  U^ars,  I  know  not  what  they  mean 
Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  despair 
Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the  eyes, 
In  looking  on  the  ha[)i)y  autumn  fields, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  on  a  sail. 
That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the  under-world  ; 
Sad  as  the  last  whi('h  reddens  over  one 
That  sinks  with  all  we  lovi;  below  tiie  verge, — 
So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer  dawns 
The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awaken'd  birds 
To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 
The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmering  square; 
So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  arc  no  more. 

Dear  as  rememl)er'd  kisses  aftei'  death. 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy  fcign'd 
On  lips  that  are  f(n-  others  ;  deep  as  love, 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret, — 
0  Death  in  Life,  the  days  that  are  no  more! 

OVER  THE  RIVER. 

Nancy   A.  W.  Priust. 

OvKK  the  riv(!r  they  beckon  to  me, 

Loved  ones  who  cross'd  to  tlic  other  side 


118  CHOICE    READINGS. 

The  gleam  of  their  snowy  robes  I  see, 

But  their  voices  are  lost  in  the  dashing  tide. 
There's  one  with  ringlets  of  sunnj'  gold, 

And  eyes  the  reflection  of  heaven's  own  blue  ; 
He  cross'd  in  the  twilight  gray  and  cold, 

And  the  pale  mist  hid  him  from  mortal  view. 
We  saw  not  the  angels  who  met  him  there,  — 

The  gates  of  the  city  we  could  not  see  ; 
Over  the  river,  over  the  river. 

My  brother  stands,  waiting  to  welcome  me. 

Over  the  river  the  boatman  pale 

Carried  another,  the  household  pet ; 
Her  brown  curls  waved  in  the  gentle  gale,  — 

Darling  Minnie  !  I  see  her  yet ! 
She  closed  on  her  bosom  her  dimpled  hands. 

And  fearlessly  enter'd  the  phantom  bark  ; 
We  felt  it  glide  from  the  silver  sands, 

And  all  our  sunshine  grew  strangely  dark. 
We  know  she  is  safe  on  the  farther  side, 

Whei'e  all  the  ransom'd  and  angels  be ; 
Over  the  river,  the  mystic  river, 

My  childhood's  idol  is  waiting  for  me. 

For  none  return  from  those  quiet  shores. 

Who  cross  with  the  boatman  cold  and  pale ; 
We  hear  the  dip  of  the  golden  oars, 

And  catch  a  gleam  of  the  snowy  sail ; 
And,  lo  !  they  have  pass'd  from  our  yearning  hearts. 

The}'  cross  the  stream  and  are  gone  for  aye. 
We  may  not  sunder  the  veil  apart 

That  hides  from  our  vision  the  gates  of  day ; 
We  only  know  that  their  barks  no  more 

Sail  with  us  o'er  life's  stormy  sea ; 
Yet  somewhere,  I  know,  on  the  unseen  shore, 

They  watch,  and  beckon,  and  wait  for  me. 


PICTURES    OF   MEMORY.  119 

And  I  sit  and  think  when  the  sunset's  gold 

Is  flushing  river,  hill,  and  shore, 
I  shaU  one  day  stand  by  the  water  cold 

And  list  for  the  sound  of  the  boatman's  oar. 
I  sliall  watch  for  a  gleam  of  the  flapping  sail ; 

I  shall  hear  the  boat  as  it  gains  the  strand ; 
I  shall  pass  from  sight  with  the  boatman  pale 

To  the  better  shore  of  the  spirit-land. 
I  shall  know  the  loved  who  have  gone  before, 

And  joyfully  sweet  will  the  meeting  be, 
"When  over  the  river,  the  peaceful  river, 

The  angel  of  death  shall  carry  me. 

PIOTUKES   OF  MEMORY. 

Alice  Gary. 

Among  the  beautiful  pictures 

That  hang  on  Memory's  wall, 
Is  one  of  a  dim  old  forest. 

That  seemetli  best  of  all. 
Not  for  its  gnarl'd  oaks  olden, 

Dark  with  the  mistletoe  ; 
Not  for  the  violets  golden 

That  sprinkle  the  vale  below ; 
Not  for  the  milk-white  lilies 

That  lean  from  the  fragrant  ledge, 
Coquetting  all  da}'  with  tlie  sunbeams. 

And  stealing  their  golden  edge  ; 
Not  for  the  vines  on  the  upland 

Where  the  bright  red  berries  rest, 
Nor  the  pinks,  nor  the  pale,  sweet  cowslip. 

It  seemeth  to  me  the  best. 

I  once  had  a  little  brother 

With  eyes  that  were  dark  and  deep ; 

In  the  lap  of  that  dim  old  forest. 
He  lieth  in  peace  asleep. 


120  CHOICE    READIJ^GS. 

Light  as  the  down  of  the  thistle, 

Free  as  the  winds  that  blow, 
We  roved  there,  the  beautiful  summers, 

The  summers  of  long  ago  ; 
But  his  feet  on  the  hills  grew  weary, 

And,  one  of  the  autumn  eves, 
I  made  for  my  little  brother 

A  bed  of  the  yellow  leaves. 

Sweetl}-  his  pale  arms  folded 

My  neck  in  a  meek  embrace. 
As  the  light  of  immortal  beauty 

Silently  cover'd  his  face  ; 
And  when  the  arrows  of  sunset 

Lodged  in  the  tree-tops  bright, 
He  fell,  in  his  saint-like  beaut^', 

Asleep  bv  the  gates  of  light. 

Therefore,  of  all  tlie  pictures 
That  hang  on  IMemory's  wall, 

The  one  of  the  dim  old  forest 
Seemeth  the  best  of  all. 


SANDALPHON. 

H.  W.  Longfellow. 

Have  3'ou  read  in  the  Talmud  of  old, 
In  the  Legends  the  Rabbins  have  told 

Of  the  limitless  realms  of  the  air. 
Have  you  read  it,  —  the  marvellous  story 
Of  Sandalphon,  the  Angel  of  Glory, 

Sandalphon,  the  Angel  of  Prayer? 

How,  erect,  at  the  outermost  gates 
Of  the  Cit}'  Celestial  he  waits. 

With  his  feet  on  the  ladder  of  light. 
That,  crowded  with  angels  unnumber'd. 
By  Jacob  was  seen,  as  he  slumber'd 

Alone  in  the  desert  at  nisfht? 


SANDALPHON. 


121 


The  Angels  of  Wind  und  of  Fire 
Chant  only  one  hymn,  and  expire 

With  the  song's  irresistible  stress  ; 
Expire  in  their  rapture  and  wonder, 
As  harp-strings  are  broken  asunder 

By  music  they  throb  to  express. 
But,  serene  in  the  rapturous  throng, 
Unmoved  by  the  rush  of  the  song. 

With  eyes  unimpassion'd  and  slow, 
Among  the  dead  angels,  the  deathless 
Sandalphon  stands  listening,  breathless. 
To  sounds  that  ascend  from  below  ;  — 
From  the  spirits  on  Earth  that  adore. 
From  the  souls  that  entreat  and  implore 
In  the  fervour  and  passion  of  prayer ; 
From  the  hearts  tliat  are  broken  with  losses, 
And  weary  with  dragging  the  crosses 

Too  heavy  for  mortals  to  bear. 
And  he  gathers  the  prayers  as  he  stands, 
And  they  change  into  flowers  in  his  hands, 

Into  garlands  of  purple  and  red  ; 
And  beneath  the  great  arch  of  the  portal, 
Through  the  streets  of  the  City  Immortal 
Is  wafted  the  fragrance  they  shed. 

It  is  but  a  legend,  I  know,  — 
A  fable,  a  phantom,  a  show. 

Of  the  ancient  Kabbinical  lore  : 
Yet  the  old  medieval  tradition. 
The  beautiful,  strange  superstition, 

But  haunts  me  and  holds  me  the  more. 
When  I  look  from  ray  window  at  night, 
And  the  welkin  above  is  all  wjiite, 

AH  throbbing  and  panting  with  stars. 
Among  tliem  majestic  is  standing 
Sandalphon  the  angel,  expandmg 
His  pinions  in  nebulous  bars. 


122  CHOICE    READINGS. 

And  the  legend,  I  feel,  is  a  part 

Of  the  hunger  and  thirst  of  the  heart, 

The  frenzy  and  fire  of  the  brain, 
That  grasps  at  the  fruitage  forbidden, 
The  golden  pomegranates  of  Eden, 

To  quiet  its  fever  and  pain. 


3^<«o 


ODE  TO   TKANQUILLITY. 

S.  T.  Coleridge. 

Tranquillity  !  thou  better  name 

Than  all  the  family  of  Fame  ! 

Thou  ne'er  wilt  leave  my  riper  age 

To  low  intrigue  or  factious  rage  ; 

For,  O  dear  child  of  thoughtful  Truth ! 

To  thee  I  gave  my  early  ^outh. 
And  left  the  bark,  and  blest  the  steadfast  shore. 
Ere  yet  the  tempest  rose  and  scared  me  with  its  roar 

Who  late  and  lingering  seeks  thy  shrine, 
On  him  but  seldom,  Power  divine. 
Thy  spirit  rests  !  Satiety 
And  Sloth,  poor  counterfeits  of  thee, 
Mock  the  tired  worldling.     Idle  hope 
And  dire  remembrance  interlope. 
To  vex  tlie  feverish  slumbers  of  the  mind : 
The  bubble  floats  before,  the  spectre  stalks  behind. 

But  me  thy  gentle  hand  will  lead 
At  morning  through  th'  accustom'd  mead  ; 
And  in  the  sultry  Summer's  heat 
Will  build  me  up  a  mossy  seat ; 
And,  when  tbe  gusty  Autumn  crowds 
And  breaks  the  busy  moonlit  clouds. 
Thou  best  the  thought  canst  raise,  the  heart  attune, 
Light  as  the  busy  clouds,  calm  as  the  gliding  Moon. 


MEMORY.  123 

The  feeling  heart,  the  searching  soul, 

To  thee  I  dedicate  the  whole  ! 

And,  while  within  myself  I  trace 

The  greatness  of  some  future  race, 

Aloof  with  hermit-e^'e  I  scan 

The  present  works  of  present  man,  — 
A  wild  and  dream-like  trade  of  blood  and  guile. 
Too  foolish  for  a  tear,  too  wicked  for  a  smile  ! 


MEMOEY. 

William  Wordsworth. 

A  PEN  —  to  register  ;  a  key  — 
That  winds  through  secret  wards ; 
Are  well  assign'd  to  Memory 
By  allegoric  Bards. 

As  aptly,  also,  might  be  given 

A  Pencil  to  her  hand  ; 

That,  softening  objects,  sometimes  even 

Outstrips  the  heart's  demand  ; 

That  smoothes  foregone  distress,  the  lines 
Of  lingering  care  subdues, 
Long-vanish'd  happiness  refines, 
And  clothes  in  brighter  hues  ; 

Yet,  like  a  tool  of  Fancy,  works 
Those  Spectres  to  dilate 
That  startle  Conscience,  as  she  lurks 
Within  her  lonely  seat. 

O,  that  our  lives,  which  flee  so  fast, 
In  purit}'  were  such, 
That  not  an  Image  of  the  past 
Should  fear  that  pencil's  touch ! 


12-1:  CHOICE    RKADINGS. 

Retirernent  then  might  hourly  look 
Upon  a  soothing  scene, 
Age  steal  to  his  allotted  nook 
Contented  and  serene  ; 

With  heart  as  calm  as  lakes  that  sleep, 

In  frosty  moonlight  glistening  ; 

Or  mountain  rivers,  where  they  creep 

Along  a  channel  smooth  and  deep, 

To  their  own  far-off  murmurs  listeuinff. 


Tranquillity  !   the  sovereign  aim  wert  thou 

In  heathen  schools  of  philosophic  lore  ; 

Heart-stricken  by  stern  destiny  of  yore 

The  Tragic  Muse  thee  served  with  thoughtful  vow  ; 

And  what  of  hope  Elysium  could  allow 

Was  fondly  seized  by  Sculpture,  to  restore 

Peace  to  the  mourner.     But,  when  He  who  wore 

The  crown  of  thorns  around  His  bleeding  brow 

Warm'd  our  sad  being  with  celestial  light. 

Then  Arts  which  still  had  drawn  a  softening  grace 

From  shadowy  fountains  of  the  Infinite 

Communed  with  that  Idea  face  to  face  ; 

And  move  around  it  now,  as  planets  run 

Each  in  its  orbit  round  the  central  Sun. 


THE    ANGELS    OF    BUENA    VISTA.  125 

III. 

GRAVE,   SOLEMN,   SERIOUS,   PATHETIC. 


THE  ANGELS   OF  BUENA  VISTA. 

John  G.  Whittier. 

Speak  and  tell  us,  our  Xiuiena,  looking  northward  far  awaj', 
O'er  the  camp  of  the  invaders,  o'er  the  Mexican  array, 
Who  is  losing?  who  is  winning?  are  tlie}'  far  or  come  they 

near? 
Look  abroad,  and  tell  us,  sister,  whither  rolls  the  storm  we 

hear. 

' '  Down  the  hills  of  Angostura  still  the  storm  of  battle  rolls  ; 
Blood  is  flowing,  men  are  dying ;  God  have  mercy  on  their 

souls  !  " 
Who    is   losing?  who    is    winning?     "  Over   hill    and    over 

plain, 
I  see  but  smoke  of  cannon  clouding  through  the  mountain 

rain." 

Holy  Mother,  keep  our  brothers  !     Look,  Ximena,  look  once 

more  : 
'■'  Still  I  see  the  fearful  whirlwind  rolling  darkly  as  before. 
Bearing  on,  in  strange  confusion,   frit'ud  and  foeman,  foot 

and  horse. 
Like    some    wild    and    troubled    torrent    sweeping  down    its 

mountain  course." 

Look    forth    once    more,    Ximena!     "Ah!  the   smoke    has 

roU'd  awa}' ; 
And  I  see  the  Northern  rifles  gleaming  down  the  ranks  of 

gray. 


126  CHOICE   KEADINQS. 

Hark !   that   sudden    blast   of  bugles !    there   the   troop   of 

Miiion  wheels ; 
There  the  Northern  horses  thunder,  with  the  cannon  at  their 

heels. 

"Jesu,  pity!  how  it  thickens!  now  retreat  and  now  ad- 
vance ! 

Right  against  the  blazing  cannon  shivers  Puebla's  charging 
lance ! 

Down  they  go,  the  brave  J^oung  riders  ;  horse  and  foot 
together  fall ; 

Like  a  ploughshare  in  the  fallow,  through  them  ploughs  the 
Northern  ball." 

Nearer  came  the  storm,  and  nearer,  rolling  fast  and  fright- 
ful on. 

Speak,  Ximena,  speak,  and  tell  us  who  has  lost  and  who 
has  won? 

"  Alas  !  alas  !  I  know  not ;  friend  and  foe  together  fall ; 

O'er  the  dying  rush  the  living :  pra}-,  my  sisters,  for  them 
all ! " 

"  Lo !  the  wind  the  smoke  is  lifting:  Blessed  Mother,  save 

my  brain ! 
I  can   see  the  wounded  crawling  slowly  out   from  heaps   of 

slain ; 
Now  they  stagger,  blind  and  bleeding ;  now  they  fall,  and 

strive  to  rise  : 
Hasten,  sisters,  haste  and  save  them,  lest  they  die  before 

our  eyes ! 

"O  my  heart's  love!    O  m}'  dear  one!    lay  thy  poor  head 

on  my  knee  ; 
Dost  thou  know  the  lips  that  kiss  thee?     Canst  thou  hear 

me?  canst  thou  see? 
O  m}^  husband,  brave  and  gentle !  O  my  Bei-nal,  look  once 

more 
On   the   blessfed  cross  before  thee !     Mercy !  mercy !  all   is 

o'er." 


THE    ANGELS    OF    BUENA    VISTA.  127 

Dry  thy  tears,  my  poor  Ximeiia;  lay  thy  dear  cue  down  to 
rest ; 

Let   his   hands   be    meekly    folded,    la}-  the  cross  upon  his 
breast ; 

Let  his  dirge  be  sung  hereafter,  and  his  funeral  masses  said  ' 

To-day,  thou  poor  bereaved  one,  the  living  ask  thy  aid. 

Close  beside  her,  faintly  moaning,  fair  and  young,  a  soldier 

lay, 
Torn  with  shot  and  pierced  with  lances,  bleeding  slow  his 

life  away  ; 
But,  as  tenderly  before  him  the  lorn  Ximena  knelt, 
She  saw  the  Northern  eagle  shining  on  his  pistol  belt. 

With   a  stifled  cry  of  horror  straight  she  turn'd  away  her 

head ; 
With  a  sad  and  bitter  feeling  look'd  she  l>ack  upon  her  dead  ; 
But  she  heard  the  youth's  low  moaning,  and  his  struggling 

breath  of  pain. 
And  she  raised  the  cooling  water  to  his  parching  lips  again. 

Whisper'd  low  the   dying   soldier,    press'd   her    hand,    and 

faintly  smiled : 
Was  that  pit3'ing   face  his  mother's?  did  she  watch  beside 

her  child? 
All  his  stranger  words  with  meaning  her  woman's  heart  sup 

plied  ; 
With  her  kiss  upon  his  forehead,  ''  Mother!  "  laurmur'd  he. 

and  died. 

"  A  bitter  curse  upon  them,  poor  boy,  who  led  thee  forth 
From  some  gentle,  sad-eyed  mother,  weeping,  lonely,  in  the 

North !  " 
Spake  the  mournful  Mexic  woman,  as  she  laid  him  with  her 

dead, 
A-nd  turn'd  to  soothe  the   living  still,  and  bind  the  wounds 

which  bled. 


1^8  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Look  forth  once  more,  Ximena  !  "  Like  a  cloud  before  the 
wind 

Rolls  the  battle  down  the  mountaius,  leaving  blood  and 
death  behind; 

Ah  !  they  plead  in  vain  for  nierc^' ;  in  the  dust  the  wounded 
strive  ; 

Hide  3'onr  faces,  holy  angels  !  O,  thou  Christ  of  God,  for- 
give !  " 

Sink,  O   Night,    among   thj-  mountains !  let  the  cool,  gra}- 

shadows  fall ; 
D^'ing   brothers,  fighting   demons,  —  drop  thy  curtain  over 

all ! 
Tlu'ough  the  thickening  winter  twilight,  wide  apart  the  battle 

roll'd, 
In  its  sheath  the  sabre  rested,  and  the  cannon's  lips  grew 

cold. 

But  the  noble  Mexic  women  still  their  holy  task  pursued, 

Through  that  long,  dark  night  of  sorrow,  worn  and  faint 
and  lacking  food  ; 

Over  weak  and  suffering  brothers  with  a  tender  care  they 
hung, 

And  the  dying  foeman  bless 'd  them  in  a  strange  and  North- 
ern tongue. 

Not  wholly  lost,  O  Fatlier  !  is  this  evil  world  of  ours  ; 
Upward,  through  its  blood  and  ashes,  spring  afresh  the  Eden 

flowers ; 
From  its  smoking  hell  of   battle  Love  and   Pity  send  theii 

prayer, 
And  still  Thy  white-wing'd  angels  hover  dimly  in  our  air. 

^I<Ko«^ 

TEANATOPSIS. 

W.  C.  Bryant. 

To  him  who  in  the  love  of  Nature  holds 
Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 


THANATOPSIS.  129 

A  various  laugiuige.     For  his  gayor  hours 

She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  aud  a  smile 

And  eloquence  of  beauty  ;  and  she  glides 

Into  his  darker  musings,  with  a  mild 

And  gentle  sympathy,  that  steals  away 

Their  sharpness  ere  he  is  aware.     "When  thoughts 

Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 

Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 

Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud  and  pall, 

And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow  house, 

Make  thee  to  shudder,  and  grow  sick  at  heart. 

Go  forth  under  the  open  sky,  aud  list 

To  Nature's  teachings,  while  from  all  around  — 

Earth  and  her  waters,  aud  the  depths  of  air  — 

Comes  a  still  voice,  — ^  Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 

The  all-beholding  Sun  shall  see  no  more 

In  all  his  course  ;  nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground, 

AVhere  thy  pale  form  was  laid,  with  many  tears. 

Nor  in  th'  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 

Thy  image.     Earth,  that  nourish'd  thee,  shall  claim 

Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again  ; 

And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 

Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 

To  mix  for  ever  with  the  elements, 

To  be  a  brother  to  th'  insensible  rock, 

And  to  the  sluggish  clod  which  the  rude  swain 

Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.     The  oak 

Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy  mould. 

Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting-place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone ;  nor  couldst  thou  wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.     Thou  shalt  lie  down 
AYith  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world  ;   with  kings, 
The  powerful  of  the  Earth,  —  the  wise,  the  good. 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, — 
All  in  one  might}'  sepulchre.     The  hills 
Rock-ribb'd  and  ancient  as  the  Sun  ;  the  vales 
Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between  ; 


130  CHOICE   READINGS. 

The  venerable  woods  ;  rivers  that  move 

In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 

That  make  the  meadows  green  ;  and,  pour'd  round  all, 

Old  ocean's  gray  and  melancholy'  waste,  — 

Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 

Of  the  great  tomb  of  man.     The  golden  Sun, 

The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven, 

Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death, 

Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.     All  that  tread 

The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 

That  slumber  in  its  bosom.     Take  the  wings 

Of  morning,  and  the  Barcan  desert  pierce  ; 

Or  lose  th3'self  in  the  continuous  woods 

Where  rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears  no  sound 

Save  his  own  dashiugs,  — yet  the  dead  are  there  ; 

And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 

The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 

In  their  last  sleep,  —  the  dead  reign  there  alone. 

So  shalt  thou  rest ;  and  what  if  thou  shalt  fall 

Unnoticed  by  the  living,  and  no  friend 

Take  note  of  th}'  departure  ?     All  that  breathe 

Will  share  thj-  destiu}'.     The  gay  will  laugh 

When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  care 

Plod  on,  and  each  one,  as  before,  will  chase 

His  favourite  phantom  ;  yet  all  these  shall  leave 

Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and  shall  come 

And  make  their  bed  with  thee.     As  the  long  train 

Of  ages  glide  awa}',  the  sons  of  men. 

The  youth  in  life's  green  spring,  and  he  who  goes 

In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron,  and  maid. 

The  bow'd  with  age,  the  infant  in  the  smiles 

And  beauty  of  its  innocent  age  cut  off. 

Shall,  one  by  one,  be  gather'd  to  thy  side 

By  those  who  in  their  turn  shall  follow  them. 

So  live  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
Th*  innumerable  caravan,  that  moves 
To  the  pale  realms  of  shade,  where  each  shall  take 


THE   HERHZt.  I'M 

His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 

Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarr3'-slave  at  night 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon  ;  but,  sustain'd  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave, 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 

THE  HEEMIT. 

James  Beattih. 

At  the  close  of  the  day,  when  the  hamlet  is  still, 
And  mortals  the  sweets  of  forgetfulness  prove, 
When  nought  but  the  torrent  is  heard  on  the  hill. 
And  nought  but  the  nightingale's  song  in  the  grove ; 
'Twas  thus,  by  the  cave  of  the  mountain  afar, 
"While  his  harp  rung  symphonious,  a  hermit  began  : 
No  more  with  himself  or  with  Nature  at  war, 
He  thought  as  a  sage,  though  he  felt  as  a  man. 

"  Ah !  why,  all  abandon'd  to  darkness  and  woe, 
Why,  lone  Philomela,  that  languisliing  fall? 
For  Spring  shall  return,  and  a  lover  bestow, 
And  sorrow  no  longer  thy  bosom  enthrall. 
But,  if  pity  inspire  thee,  renew  the  sad  la}'. 
Mourn,  sweetest  complainer,  man  calls  thee  to  mourn ; 
O,  soothe  him  whose  pleasures  like  thine  pass  away : 
Full  quickly  they  pass,  —  but  they  never  return. 

Now,  gliding  remote  on  the  verge  of  the  sky, 
The  Moon,  half  extinguish'd,  her  crescent  displays; 
But  lately  I  mark'd  when  majestic  on  high 
She  shone,  and  the  planets  were  lost  in  her  blaze. 
Roll  on,  thou  fair  orb,  and  with  gladness  pursue 
The  path  that  conducts  thee  to  splendour  again. 
But  man's  faded  glory  what  change  shall  renew? 
Ah,  fool !  to  exult  in  a  glory  so  vain ! 


132  CHOICE    READINGS. 

'Tis  uight,  and  the  landscape  is  lovely  no  more ; 
I  mourn,  but,  ye  woodlands,  I  mourn  not  for  you  ; 
For  morn  is  appi'oaching,  your  charms  to  restore. 
Perfumed  with  fresh  fragrance,  and  glittering  with  dew ; 
Nor  yet  for  the  ravage  of  Winter  I  mourn  ; 
Kind  Nature  the  embryo  blossom  will  save. 
But  when  shall  Spring  visit  the  mouldering  urn  ? 
O,  when  shall  it  dawn  on  the  night  of  the  grave? 

'Twas  thus,  by  the  glare  of  false  Science  betray'd, 

That  leads  to  bewilder,  and  dazzles  to  blind  ; 

My  thoughts  wont  to  roam  from  shade  onward  to  shade, 

Destruction  before  me,  and  sorrow  behind. 

'  O,  pity,  great  Father  of  light,'  then  I  cried, 

'  Thy  creature,  who  fain  would  not  wander  from  Thee : 

Lo,  humbled  in  dust,  I  relinquish  my  pride : 

From  doubt  and  from  darkness  Thou  only  canst  free.' 

And  darkness  and  doubt  are  now  flying  away ; 

No  longer  I  roam  in  conjecture  forlorn  : 

So  breaks  on  the  traveller,  faint,  and  astray. 

The  bright  and  the  balmy  effulgence  of  morn. 

See  Truth,  Love,  and  Mere}-  in  triumph  descending, 

And  Nature  all  glowing  in  Eden's  first  bloom  ! 

On  the  cold  cheek  of  Death  smiles  and  roses  are  blending, 

And  Beauty  immortal  awakes  from  the  tomb." 

THE  LADDER   OF   SAINT  AUGUSTINE. 

H.  W.  Longfellow. 

Saint  Augustine  !  well  hast  thou  said, 
That  of  our  vices  we  can  frame 
A  ladder,  if  we  will  but  tread 
Beneath  our  feet  each  deed  of  shame. 

All  common  things,  each  day's  events, 
That  with  the  hour  begin  and  end. 
Our  pleasures  and  our  discontents, 
Are  rounds  by  which  we  may  ascend. 


THE    LADDER    OK    SAINT    AUGUSTINE.  133 

The  low  desire,  the  base  design, 
That  makes  another's  virtues  less ; 
The  revel  of  the  ruddy  wine, 
And  all  occasions  of  excess  ; 

The  longing  for  ignoble  things  ; 
The  strife  for  triumph  more  than  truth  ; 
The  hardening  of  the  heart,  that  brings 
Irreverence  for  the  dreams  of  youth  ; 

All  thoughts  of  ill ;   all  evil  deeds, 
That  have  their  root  in  thoughts  of  ill ; 
AVhatever  hinders  or  impedes 
The  action  of  the  nobler  will ;  — 

All  these  must  first  be  trampled  down 
Beneath  our  feet,  if  we  would  gain 
In  the  bright  fields  of  fair  renown 
The  right  of  eminent  domain. 

We  have  not  wings,  we  cannot  soar ; 
But  we  have  feet  to  scale  and  climb 
By  slow  degrees,  by  more  and  more, 
The  cloudy  summits  of  our  time. 

The  mighty  pyramids  of  stone 
That  wedge-like  cleave  the  desert  airs, 
When  nearer  seen  and  better  known, 
Are  but  gigantic  flights  of  stairs. 

The  distant  mountains,  that  uprear 
Their  solid  bastions  to  the  skies, 
Are  cross'd  by  pathways,  that  appear 
As  we  to  higher  levels  rise. 

The  heights  of  great  men  reach'd  and  kept 
Were  not  attain'd  by  sudden  flight ; 
But  they,  while  their  companions  slept, 
Were  toiling  upward  in  the  night. 


134  CHOICE   READINGS. 

Standing  on  what  too  long  we  bore 
With  shoulders  bent  and  downcast  eyes, 
We  may  discern  —  unseen  before  — 
A  path  to  higher  destinies. 

Nor  deem  th'  irrevocable  Past 
As  wholly  wasted,  wholly  vain, 
If,  rising  on  its  wrecks,  at  last 
To  something  nobler  we  attain. 


OHEISTMAS-DAY. 

Samuel  Richards. 

Though  rude  winds  usher  thee,  sweet  day. 
Though  clouds  thy  face  deform. 

Though  Nature's  grace  is  swept  away 
Before  thy  sleety  storm  ; 

Even  in  thj'  sombrest  wintry  vest, 

Of  blessed  days  thou  art  most  blest. 

Nor  frigid  air  nor  gloomy  morn 

Shall  check  our  jubilee  : 
Bright  is  the  day  when  Christ  was  bom, 

No  sun  need  shine  but  He : 
Let  roughest  storms  their  coldest  blow. 
With  love  of  Him  our  hearts  shall  glow. 

Inspired  with  high  and  holy  thought, 

Fancy  is  on  the  wing : 
It  seems  as  to  mine  ear  it  brought 

Those  voices  carolling,  — 
Voices  through  Heaven  and  Earth  that  ran,- 
"  Glory  to  God,  good-will  to  man  ! " 

I  see  the  Shepherds  gazing  wild 

At  those  fair  Spirits  of  light ; 
I  see  them  bending  o'er  the  Child 

With  that  untold  delight 


WINIFRED  A. 

Which  marks  the  face  of  those  who  view 
Things  but  too  happy  to  be  true. 

Oft  as  this  joyous  morn  doth  come 

To  speak  our  Saviour's  love, 
O,  may  it  bear  our  spirits  home 

Where  He  now  reigns  above  ! 
That  day  which  brouglit  Him  from  the  skies 
So  man  restores  to  Paradise. 

Then  let  winds  usher  thee,  sweet  day, 

Let  clouds  thy  face  deform  : 
Though  Nature's  grace  is  swept  away 

Before  thy  sleety  storm, 
Even  in  thy  sombrest  wintry  vest, 
Of  blessed  days  thou  art  most  blest. 


WINIFKEDA. 

Away  !  let  nought  to  love  displeasing, 
My  Winifreda,  move  your  care  ; 

Let  nought  delay  the  heavenly  blessing, 
Nor  squeamish  pride,  nor  gloomy  fear. 

What  though  no  grants  of  royal  donors 
With  pompous  titles  grace  our  blood  ; 

We'll  shine  in  more  substantial  honours, 
And  to  be  noble  we'll  be  good. 

Our  name,  while  virtue  thus  we  tender, 
Will  sweetly  sound  where'er  'tis  spoke ; 

And  all  the  great  ones  they  shall  wonder 
How  they  respect  such  little  folk. 

What  though  from  fortune's  lavish  bounty 
No  mighty  treasures  we  possess  ; 

We'll  find  within  our  pittance  plenty, 
And  be  content  without  excess. 


135 


136  CHOICE    READINGS. 

And  still  shall  each  returning  season 

Sufficient  for  our  wishes  give  ; 
For  we  will  live  a  life  of  reason, 

And  that's  the  only  life  to  live. 

Through  youth  and  age  in  love  excelling, 
AYe'U  hand  in  hand  together  tread  ; 

Sweet-siniling  peace  shall  crown  our  dwelling. 
And  babes,  sweet-smiling  babes,  our  bed. 

How  I  should  love  the  pretty  creatures, 
AVhile  round  my  knees  they  fondly  clung  ! 

To  see  them  look  their  mother's  features, 
To  hear  them  lisp  their  mother's  tongue. 

And  when  with  envy  time  transported 

Shall  think  to  rob  us  of  our  joys, 
You'll  in  your  girls  again  be  courted, 

And  I'll  go  wooing  in  my  boys. 

THE  BLAOKSMITfl'S   STOEY. 

Frank  Olive. 

Well,  No  !  My  wife  ain't  dead,  sir,  but  I've  lost  her  all  the 

same  ; 
She  left  me  voluntaril}^,  and  neither  was  to  blame. 
It's  rather  a  queer  stor}',  and  I  think  you  will  agree  — 
AV hen  you  hear  the  circumstances — 'twas  rather  rough  or 

me. 

She  was  a  soldier's  widow.     He  was  kill'd  at  Malvern  Hill ; 
And  when  I  married  her  she  seem'd  to  sorrow  for  him  still ; 
But  I  brought  her  here  to  Kansas,  and  I  never  want  to  see 
A  better  wife  than  Mary  was  for  five  Ijright  A'ears  to  me. 

The  change  of  scene  brought  cheerfulness,  and  soon  a  rosy 

glow 
Of  happiness    warm'd  Mary's   cheeks  and  melted  all  theit 

snow. 


THE  blacksmith's  stouy.  137 

I  think  she  loved  me  some,  —  I'm  ])ouiul  to  think  that  of  her, 

sir ; 
And  as  for  me,  — I  can't  begin  to  tell  how  I  loved  her ! 

Three  jeavs  ago  the  bahy  came  onr  luimble  liome  to  bless ; 

And  then  I  reckon  I  was  nigh  to  perfect  happiness  ; 

'Twas  hers,  —  'twas  mine  ;  but  I've  no  language  to  explain 

to  you. 
How  that  little  girl's  weak  fingers  our  hearts  together  drew ! 

Once  we  watch'd  it  througli  a  fever,  and  with  each  gasping 

breath. 
Dumb  with  an  awful,  wordless  woe,  we  waited  for  its  death ; 
And,  though  I  ii.  not  a  pious  man,  our  souls  together  there, 
For   Heaven   to    spare    our   darling,    went   up    in  voiceless 

prayer. 

And,  when  the  doctor  said  'twould  live,  our  J03'  what  words 

could  tell? 
Clasp'd  in  each  other's  arms,  our  grateful  tears  together  fell. 
Sometimes,  3'ou  see,  the  shadow  fell  across  our  little  nest, 
But  it  only  made  the  sunshine  seem  a  doubly  welcome  guest. 

Work  came  to  me  a  plenty,  and  I  kept  tlie  anvil  ringing  ; 

Early  and  late  you'd  find  me  tliere  a-haumiering  and  sing- 
ing ; 

Love  nerved  my  arm  to  labour,  and  moved  my  tongue  to 
song, 

And,  though  my  singing  wasn't  sweet,  it  was  tremendous 
strong ! 

One    day  a  one-arm'd    stranger  sto[)p'd  to  have  me  nail  a 

shoe, 
And,  while  I  was  at  work,  we  pass'd  a  compliment  or  two ; 
I  ask'd  him  liow  he  lost  his  arm.     He  said  'twas  shot  away 
At  Malvern  Hill.     "Malvern  Hill!     Did  you  know  Robert 

May?" 


138  CHOICE    READINGS. 

"That's   me,"  said   he.     "You,  you!"  I   gasp'd,  choking 

with  horrid  doubt ; 
"If  you're  the  man,  just  follow  me  ;  we'll  try  this  mystery 

out!" 
With  dizzy  steps,  I  led  him  to  Mary.     God  !     'Twas  true  ! 
Theu  the  bitterest  pangs  of  miserj',  unspeakable,  I  knew. 

Frozen  with  deadly  horror,  she  stared  with  eyes  of  stone, 
And  from  her  quivering  lips  there  broke  one  wild,  despair 

ing  moan. 
'Twas  he  !  the  husband   of    her  youth,  now  risen  from  the 

dead. 
But  all  too  late  ;  and,  with  bitter  cry,  her  senses  fled. 

What  could  be  done?  He  was  reported  dead.  On  his  re- 
turn 

He  strove  in  vain  some  tidings  of  his  absent  wife  to  learn. 

'Twas  well  that  he  was  innocent !  Else  I'd  have  kill'd  him, 
too. 

So  dead  he  never  would  have  riz  till  Gabriel's  trumpet  blew  ! 

It  was  agreed  that  Mary  then  between  us  should  decide. 
And  each  by  her  decision  would  sacredly  abide. 
No  sinner,  at  the  judgment-seat,  waiting  eternal  doom. 
Could  suffer  what  I  did,  while  waiting  sentence  in  that  room. 

Rigid  and  breathless,  there  we  stood,  with  nerves  as  tense  as 

steel. 
While  Mary's  eyes  sought  each  white  face,  in  piteous  appeal, 
God  !  could  not  woman's  duty  be  less  hardly  reconciled 
Between  her  lawful  husband  and  the  father  of  her  child  ? 

Ah,  how  my  heart  was  chill'd  to  ice,  when  she  knelt  down 

and  said,  — 
"Forgive  me,  John!     He  is  mj^  husband!     Here!     Alive! 

not  dead ! 
I  raised  her  tenderly,  and  tried  to  tell  her  she  was  right. 
But  somehow,  in  my  aching  breast,  the  prison'd  words  stuck 

tight! 


HOW   HE    SAVED    ST.    MICHAEL'S.  139 

"But,   John,    I   can't    leave  bab}-."  —  "What!    wife   and 

child !  "  cried  I ; 
"Must  I  yield  all!     Ah,  cruel  fate!     Better  that  I  should 

die. 
Think  of  the  long,  sad,  lonely  hours,  waiting  in  gloom  for 

me,  — 
No  wife  to  cheer  me  with  her  love,  —  no  babe  to  climb  my 

knee! 

And  yet  —  you  are  hov  mother,  and  the  sacred  mother-love 
Is  still  the  purest,  teuderest  tie  that  Heaven  ever  wove. 
Take   her;  but   promise,    Mary,  —  for    that   will   bring   no 

shame,  — 
My  little  girl  shall  bear,  and  learn  to  lisp,  her  father's  name  !  " 

It  may  be,  in  the  life  to  come,  I'll  meet  my  child  and  wife  ; 
But  yonder,  by  m}'  cottage  gate,  we  parted  for  this  life  ; 
One  long  hand-clasp  from  Mary,  and  m}'  dream  of  love  was 

done ! 
One  long  embrace  from  bab}',  and  my  happiness  was  gone ! 

HOW  HE  SAVED  ST.   MICHAEL'S. 

It  was  long  ago  it  happen'd,  ere  ever  the  signal  gun 

That  blazed  above  Fort  Sumpter  had  waken'd  the  North  as 

one; 
Long  ere  the  wondrous  pillar  of  battle-cloud  and  fire 
Had  mark'd  where   the   uuchaiu'd    millions   march'd  on   to 

their  heart's  desire. 

On  the  roofs  and  the  glittering  turrets,  that  night,  as  the 

Sun  went  down, 
The  mellow  glow  of  the  twilight  shone  like  a  jewell'd  crown  ; 
And,  bathed  in  the  living  glory,  as  the   people  lifted  then: 

eyes. 
They  saw  the  pride  of  the  city,  the  spire  of  St.  Michael's 

rise 


140  CHOICE    READINGS. 

High  over  the  lesser  steeples,  tipp'd  with  a  golden  ball, 
That   hung  like    a   radiant   planet    caught  in  its  earthward 

fall,  — 
First  glimpse  of  home  to  the  sailor  who  made  the  harbour 

round. 
And  last  slow-fading  vision  dear  to  the  outward  bound. 

The  gently  gathering  shadows  shut  out  the  waning  light ; 
The  children  pray'd  at  their  bedsides,  as  you  will  pray  to« 

night ; 
The  noise  of  bu3-er  and  seller  from  the  busy  mart  was  gone ; 
And  in  dreams  of  a  peaceful  morrow  the  city  slumber'd  on. 

But  another  light  than  sunrise  aroused  the  sleeping  street ; 
For  a  cr}'  was  heard  at  midnight,  and  tlie  rush  of  trampling 

feet; 
Men  stared  in  each  other's  faces  through  mingled  fire  and 

smoke. 
While  the  frantic  bells  went  clashing,  clamorous  stroke  on 

stroke. 

By  the  glare  of  her  blazing  roof-tree  the  houseless  mother 
fled. 

With  the  babe  she  press'd  to  her  bosom  shrieking  in  name- 
less dread. 

While  the  fire-king's  wild  battalions  scaled  wall  and  capstone 
high, 

And  planted  their  flaring  banners  against  an  inky  sky. 

From  the  death  that  raged  behind  tliem,  and  tlie  crash  of  ruin 
loud. 

To  tlie  great  s(juare  of  the  city  were  driven  the  surging 
crowd  ; 

Where  yet,  firm  in  all  the  tumult,  unscathed  by  the  fiery 
flood, 

With  its  heavenward-pointing  finger  the  Church  of  St.  Mich- 
ael stood. 


HOW    HE    SAVED    ST.    MICHAEL'S.  141 

But  e'en  as  they  gazed  upon  it  there  rose  a  sudden  wail,  — 
A  cry  of  horror,  blended  with  the  roaring  of  the  gale, 
On  whose  scorching  wings  up-driven,  a  single  flaming  brand 
Aloft  on  the  towering  steeple  clung  like  a  bloody  hand. 

"Will  it   fade?"     The  whisper  trembled  from  a   thousand 

whitening  lips  ; 
Far  out   on   the   lurid   harbour,  they  watch'd   it   from   the 

ships,  — 
A  baleful  gleam  that  brighter  and  ever  brighter  shone. 
Like  a  flickering,  trembling  will-o'-wisp  to  a  steady  beacon 

grown. 

"  Uncounted  gold  shall  be  given  to   the  man  whose  brave 

right  hand, 
For  the  love  of  the  perill'd  city,  plucks  down  yon  burning 

brand  ! " 
So  cried  the  mayor  of  Charleston,  that  all  the  people  heard ; 
But  they  look'd  each  one  at  his  fellow ;  and  no  man  spoke  a 

word. 

Who  is  it  leans  from  the  belfry,  with  face  upturn 'd  to  the 

sky, 
Clings  to  a  column,   and  measures  the  dizzy  spire  with  his 

eye? 
Will  he  dare  it,  the  hero  uudaunted,  that  terrible  sickening 

height  ? 
Or  will  the  hot  blood  of  his  courage  freeze  in  his  veins  at  the 

sight? 

But,  see !  he  has  stepp'd  on  the  railing ;  he  climbs  with  his 
feet  and  his  hands  ; 

And  firm  on  a  narrow  projection,  with  the  belfry  beneath 
him,  he  stands ; 

Now  once,  and  once  only,  they  cheer  him,  — a  single  tem- 
pestuous breath, — 

And  there  falls  on  the  multitude  gazing  a  hush  like  the  still- 
ness of  death. 


142  CHOICE    liEADINGS. 

Slow,  steadil}'  mounting,  unheeding  auglit  save  the  goal  of 

the  fire, 
Still  higher  and  higher,  an  atom,  he  moves  on  the  face  of 

the  spire. 
He  stops  !     Will  he  fall  ?     Lo  !  for  answer,  a  gleam  like  a 

meteor's  track, 
And,  hurl'd  on  the  stones  of  the  pavement,  the  red  brand 

lies  shatter'd  and  black. 

Once  more  the  shouts  of  the  people  have  rent  the  quivering 

air: 
At  the  church-door  mayor  and  council  wait  with  their  feet 

on  the  stair ; 
And  the  eager  throng  behind  them  press  for  a  touch  of  his 

hand, — 
The  unknown  hero,  whose  daring  could  compass  a  deed  so 

grand. 

But  why  does  a   sudden  tremor  seize  on    them  while    the}^ 

gaze? 
And    what   meaneth    that   stifled    murmur    of    wonder   and 

amaze? 
He  stood  in  the  gate  of  the  temple  he  had  perill'd  his  life 

to  save ; 
And  the  face  of  the  hero  undaunted  was  the  sable  face  of 

a  slave. 

With  folded  arms  he  was  speaking,  in  tones  that  were  clear, 

not  loud, 
And  his  eyes,,  ablaze  in  their  sockets,  burnt  into  the  eyes  of 

the  crowd  : 
"You  may  keep  your  gold;  I  scorn  it! — but  answer  me, 

3'e  who  can. 
If  the  deed  I  have  done  before  you  be  not  the  deed  of  a 

man?" 

He  stepp'd  but  a  short  space  backward  ;  and  from  all  the 
women  and  men 


CURFEW   MUST   NOT   RING   TO-NIGHT.  143 

There  were  onl}-  sobs  for  answer;  and  the  mayor  call'd  for 

a  pen, 
And  the  great  seal  of  the  city,  that  he  might  read  who  ran  : 
And  the  slave  who  saved  St.  Michael's  went  out  from  its 

door,  a  man. 

OURrEW  MUST  NOT  EING  TO-NIGHT. 

Rose  A.  Hartwick  Thorpe. 

England's  Sun  was  slowly  setting  o'er  the  hills  so  far  away, 
Filling  all  the  land  with  Ijeanty  at  the  close  of  one  sad  day  ; 
And  the  last  rays  kiss'd  the  forehead  of  a  man  and  maiden 

fair, 
He  with  step  so  slow  and  weaken'd,  she  witli  sunny,  floating 

liair ; 
He  with  sad  bow'd  head,  and  tlioughtful,  she  with  lips  so 

cold  and  white, 
Struggling  to  keep  back  tlie  murmur,   "Curfew  must  not 

ring  to-night." 

"Sexton,"  —  Bessie's  white  lips  falter'd,  pointing  to  tlie 
prison  old, 

With  its  walls  so  dark  and  gloomy,  walls  so  dark  and  damp 
and  cold,  — 

"  I've  a  lover  in  that  prison,  doom'd  this  very  night  to  die 

At  the  ringing  of  the  Curfew,  and  no  earthly  help  is  nigh.. 

Cromwell  will  not  come  till  sunset"  ;  and  her  face  grew 
strangely  white, 

As  she  spoke  in  husky  whispers,  "  Curfew  must  not  ring  to- 
night." 

"Bessie,"    calmly  spoke  the  sexton, — every  word  pierced 

her  young  heart 
Like  a  thousand  gleaming  arrows,  like  a  deadly  poison'd 

dart,  — 
''  Long,  long  years  I've  rung  the  Curfew  from  that  gloomy 

shadow'd  tower ; 


144  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Ever}'  evening,  just  at  sunset,  it  lias  told  the  twilight  hour ; 
I  have  done  my  dut}-  ever,  tried  to  do  it  just  and  right ; 
Now  I'm  old,  I  will  not  miss  it;  girl,  the  Curfew  rings  to- 
night !  " 

Wild  her  eyes  and  pale  her  features,  stern  and  white   her 

thoughtful  brow, 
And  within  her  heart's  deep  centre  Bessie  made  a  solemn 

vow : 
She  had  listen'd  while  the  judges   read,  without  a  tear  or 

sigh, 
"  At  the  ringing  of  the  Curfew  Basil  Underwood  must  die." 
And  her  breath  came  fast  and  faster,   and   her  eyes  grew 

large  and  bright,  — 
One  low  murmur,  scarcely  spoken,  "  Curfew  must  not  ring 

to-night ! " 

She  with  light  step  bounded  forward,  sprang  within  the  old 
church-door. 

Left  the  old  man  coming  slowl}',  paths  he'd  trod  so  oft  be- 
fore ; 

Not  one  moment  paused  the  maiden,  but,  with  cheek  and 
brow  aglow, 

Stagger'd  up  the  gloomy  tower,  where  the  bell  swung  to  and 
fro: 

Then  she  climb'd  the  slimy  ladder,  dark,  without  one  ray  of 
.      light. 

Upward  still,  her  pale  lips  sa3'ing,  "  Curfew  must  not  ring  to- 
night." 

She  has  reach'd  the  topmost  ladder,  o'er  her  hangs  the  great 
dark  bell, 

And  the  awful  gloom  beneath  her,  like  the  pathway  down  to 
Hell; 

See,  the  ponderous  tongue  is  swinging,  'tis  the  hour  of  Cur- 
few now ; 

And  the  sight  has  chill'd  her  bosom,  stopp'd  her  breath  and 
paled  her  brow. 


CURFEW    MUST    NOT    KING    TO-NIGHT.  145 

Shall  she  let  it  ring?     No,  never!  her  eyes  flash  with  snd 

den  light, 
As  she  springs  and  grasps  it  firmly,  "  Curfew  shall  not  ring 

to-night !  " 

Out  she  swung,  far  out ;  the  city  seem'd  a  tiny  speck  below  ; 

There  'twixt  heaven  and  earth  suspended,  as  the  bell  swung 
to  and  fro ; 

And  the  half-deaf  Sexton  ringing,  (years  he  had  not  heard 
the  bell,) 

And  he  thought  the  twilight  Curfew  rang  young  Basil's  fune- 
ral knell : 

Still  the  maiden  clinging  firmly,  cheek  and  brow  so  pale  and 
white, 

Still'd  her  frighten'd  heart's  wild  beating,  "  Ourfeio  shall  not 
ring  to-night." 

It  was  o'er ;  the  bell  ceased  swaying,  and  the  maiden 
stepp'd  once  more 

Firmly  on  the  damp  old  ladder,  where  for  hundred  years  be- 
fore 

Human  foot  had  not  been  planted  ;  and  what  she  this  night 
had  done 

Should  be  told  in  long  ^ears  after :  as  the  rays  of  setting 
Sun 

Light  the  sky  with  mellow  beauty,  agfed  sires,  with  heads  of 
white, 

Tell  their  children  why  the  Curfew  did  not  ring  that  one  sad 
night. 

O'er  the  distant  hills  came  Cromwell ;  Bessie  saw  him,  and 

her  brow. 
Lately  white  with  sickening  terror,  glows  with  sudden  beauty 

now : 
At  his  feet  she  told  her  story,  shovv'd  her  liands  all  bruised 

and  torn ; 
And  her  sweet  young  face  so  haggard,  with  a  look  so  sad 

and  worn. 


146  CHOICE    READINGSo 

Touch'd  his  heart  with  sudden  pity,  lit  his  eyes  with  misty 

light : 
"Go,  your  lover  Hves !  "  cried  Cromwell;    "Curfew  shall 

not  ring  to-night." 

Wide  they  flung  the  massive  portals,  led  the  prisoner  forth 

to  die, 
All  his  bright  young  life  before  him.     'Neath  the  darkening 

English  sky, 
Bessie  came  with  flying  footsteps,  eyes  aglow  with  love-light 

sweet ; 
Kneeling  on  the  turf  beside  him,  laid  his  pardon  at  his  feet. 
In  his  brave,  strong  arms  he  clasp'd  her,  kiss'd  the  face  up- 

turu'd  and  white, 
Whisper'd,  "  Darling,  you  have  saved  me  ;  Curfew  must  not 

ring  to-night." 

THE  DEATH  OF  MK.   BEETRAM. 

Sir   Walter   Scott. 

Mr.  Bertram,  paralytic,  and  almost  incapable  of 
moving,  occupied  his  easy  chair,  attired  in  his  night- 
cap and  a  loose  camlet  coat,  his  feet  wrapped  in  blan- 
kets. Behind  him,  with  his  hands  crossed  on  the  cane 
upon  which  he  rested,  stood  Dominie  Sampson,  whom 
Mannering  recognized  at  once.  Time  had  made  no 
change  upon  him,  unless  that  his  black  coat  seemed 
more  brown,  and  his  gaunt  cheeks  more  lank,  than 
when  Mannering  last  saw  liini.  On  one  side  of  the 
old  man  was  a  sylph-like  form,  —  a  young  woman  of 
about  seventeen,  whom  Colonel  Mannering  accounted 
to  be  his  daughter. 

She  was  looking,  from  time  to  time,  anxiously  towards 
the  avenue,  as  if  expecting  a  post-chaise  ;  and  between 
whiles  busied  herself  in  adjusting  the  blankets,  so  as 
to  protect  her  father  from  the  cold,  and  in  answering 


THE    DEATH    OV    MK.    BERTRAM.  147 

inquiries,  which  he  seemed  to  make  with  a  captious 
and  querulous  manner.  She  did  not  trust  herself  to 
look  towards  the  Place,  although  the  hum  of  the  assem- 
bled crowd  must  have  drawn  her  attention  in  that 
direction.  The  fourth  person  of  the  group  was  a  hand- 
some and  genteel  young  man,  who  seemed  to  share 
Miss  Bertram's  anxiety,  and  her  solicitude  to  soothe 
and  accommodate  her  parent. 

This  young  gentleman  was  the  first  who  observed 
Colonel  Mannering,  and  immediately  stepped  forward 
to  meet  him,  as  if  politely  to  prevent  his  drawing- 
nearer  to  the  distressed  group.  Mannering  instantly 
paused  and  explained.  "  He  was,"  he  said,  "a  stranger, 
to  whom  Mr.  Bertram  had  formerly  shown  kindness 
and  hospitality:  he  would  not  have  intruded  himself 
upon  him  at  a  period  of  distress,  did  it  not  seem  to  be 
in  some  desfree  a  moment  also  of  desertion  ;  he  wished 
merely  to  offer  sucli  services  as  might  be  in  his  power 
to  Mr.  Bertram  and  the  young  lady." 

He  then  paused  at  a  little  distance  from  the  chair. 
His  old  acquaintance  gazed  at  him  with  lack-lustre  eye, 
that  intimated  no  tokens  of  recognition  ;  the  Dominic 
seemed  too  deeply  sunk  in  distress  even  to  observe  his 
presence.  The  young  man  spoke  aside  with  Miss  Ber- 
tram, who  advanced  timidly,  and  thanked  Colonel  Man- 
nering for  his  goodness ;  "  but,"  she  said,  the  tears 
gushing  fast  into  her  eyes,  "her  father,  she  feared, 
was  not  so  much  himself  as  to  be  able  to  remember 
him." 

She  then  retreated  towards  the  cjhair,  acct)mpanicd  by 
the  Colonel.  "  Father,"  she  said,  "  this  is  Mr.  Manner- 
ing, an  old  friend,  come  to  inquire  after  you." 

"  He's  very  heartily  welcome,"  said  the  old  man, 
raising  hmiself  in  his  chair,  and  attempting  a  gesture  of 


148  CHOICE    READINGS. 

courtesy,  while  a  gleam  of  hospitable  satisfaction  seemed 
to  pass  over  his  faded  features. 

"  But,  Lucy,  my  dear,  let  us  go  down  to  the  house ; 
you  should  not  keep  the  gentleman  here  in  the  cold.  — 
Dominie,  take  the  key  of  the  wine-cooler.  Mr.  —  the 
gentleman  will  surely  take  something  after  his  ride." 

Mannering  was  unspeakably  affected  by  the  contrast 
which  his  recollection  made  between  this  reception  and 
that  with  which  he  had  been  greeted  by  the  same  indi- 
vidual when  they  last  met.  He  could  not  restrain  his 
tears,  and  his  evident  emotion  at  once  attained  him  the 
confidence  of  the  friendless  young  lady. 

"  Alas ! "  she  said,  "  this  is  distressing  even  to  a 
stranger ;  but  it  may  be  better  for  my  poor  father  to  be 
in  this  way,  than  if  he  knew  and  could  feel  all." 

The  sound  of  voices  was  now  heard  from  the  ruins. 
"  Good  God ! "  said  Miss  Bertram  hastily  to  Sampson, 
"  'tis  that  wretch  Glossin's  voice  !  if  my  father  sees  him, 
it  will  kill  him  outright !  " 

Sampson  wheeled  perpendicularly  round,  and  moved 
with  long  strides  to  confront  the  attorney,  as  he  issued 
from  beneath  the  portal  arch  of  the  ruin.  "Avoid  ye! " 
he  said,  "  avoid  ye !  Wouldst  thou  kill  and  take  pos- 
session ?  " 

"  Come,  come,  Master  Dominie  Sampson,"  answered 
Glossin,  insolently,  "■  if  ye  cannot  preach  in  the  pulpit, 
we'll  have  no  preaching  here.  We'll  go  by  the  law,  my 
good  friend  ;  we  leave  the  Gospel  to  you." 

The  very  mention  of  this  man's  name  had  been  of 
late  a  subject  of  the  most  violent  irritation  to  the  un- 
fortunate patient.  The  sound  of  his  voice  now  pro- 
duced an  instantaneous  effect.  Mr.  Bertram  started  up 
without  assistance,  and  turned  round  towards  him  ;  the 
ghastliness  of  his  features  forming  a  strange  contrast 


THE    DEATH    OF    MR.    IJEKTRAM.  149 

with  the  violence  of  his  exdaiuations.  "  Out  of  my 
sight,  ye  viper !  ye  frozen  viper,  that  I  warmed  till  ye 
stung  me !  Art  thou  not  afraid  that  the  walls  of  my 
father's  dwelling  should  fall  and  crush  thee,  limb  and 
bone  ?  Are  ye  not  afraid  the  very  lintels  of  the  door  of 
EUangowan-castle  should  break  open  and  swallow  you 
up  ?  Were  ye  not  friendless,  —  houseless,  —  penniless, 
when  I  took  ye  by  the  hand  ?  and  are  ye  not  expelling 
me  —  me,  and  that  innocent  girl,  —  friendless,  house- 
less, and  penniless,  from  the  house  that  has  sheltered 
us  and  ours  for  a  thousand  years?" 

Had  Glossin  been  alone,  he  would  probably  have 
slunk  off;  but  the  consciouness  that  a  stranger  was 
present  determined  him  to  resort  to  impudence.  The 
task,  however,  was  almost  too  hard,  even  for  his  ef- 
frontery. Sir,  — -sir,  — Mr.  Bertram,  —  sir,  you  should 
not  blame  me,  but  your  own  imprudence,  sir,  —  " 

The  indignation  of  Mannering  was  mounting  very 
high.  "Sir,"  he  said  to  Glossin,  "without  entering 
into  the  merits  of  this  controversy,  I  must  inform  you 
that  you  have  chosen  a  very  improper  place,  time,  and 
presence  for  it.  And  you  will  oblige  me  by  withdraw- 
ing without  more  words." 

Glossin,  being  a  tall,  strong,  muscular  man,  was  not 
unwilling  rather  to  turn  upon  a  stranger,  whom  he 
hoped  to  bully,  than  maintain  his  wretched  cause 
against  his  injured  patron.  "  I  do  not  know  who  you 
are,  sir,"  he  said,  "and  I  shall  permit  no  man  to  use 
such  freedom  with  me." 

Mannering  was  naturally  hot-tempered ;  his  eyes 
flashed  a  dark  light;  lie  compressed  his  nether  lip 
so  closely  that  the  blood  sprung;  and,  approaching 
Glossin,  "  Look  you,  sir,"  he  said,  "  that  you  do  nt)t 
know  me,  is  of  little  consequence :  /  know  you  ;  and,  \i 


150  CHOICE    READINGS. 

you  do  not  instantly  descend  that  bank,  without  utter- 
ing a  single  syllable,  by  the  Heaven  that  is  above  us, 
you  shall  make  but  one  step  from  the  top  to  the 
bottom  ! " 

The  commanding  tone  of  rightful  anger  silenced  at 
once  the  ferocity  of  the  bully.  He  hesitated,  turned  on 
his  heel,  and,  muttering  something  between  his  teeth 
about  his  unwillingness  to  alarm  the  lady,  relieved 
them  of  Iris  hateful  company. 

Mrs.  Mac-Candlish's  postillion,  who  had  come  up  in 
time  to  hear  what  passed,  said  aloud,  "  If  he  had  stuck 
by  the  way,  I  would  have  lent  him  a  heezie,  the  dirty 
scoundrel,  as  willingly  as  ever  I  pitched  a  boddle."  He 
then  stepped  forward  to  announce  that  his  horses  were 
in  readiness  for  the  invalid  and  liis  daughter.  But 
they  were  no  longer  necessary.  The  debilitated  frame 
of  Mr.  Bertram  was  exhausted  by  this  last  effort  of  in- 
dignant anger,  and,  when  he  sunk  again  upon  his  chair, 
he  expired  almost  without  a  struggle  or  groan.  So  lit- 
tle alteration  did  the  extinction  of  the  vital  spark  make 
upon  his  external  appearance,  that  the  screams  of  his 
daughter,  when  she  saw  his  eyes  fix  and  felt  his  pulse 
stop,  first  announced  his  death  to  the  spectators. 


LTJOT  BERTRAM  AND  DOMINIE    SAMPSON. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 

The  funeral  of  the  late  Mr.  Bertram  was  performed 
with  decent  privacy,  and  the  unfortunate  young  lady 
was  now  to  consider  herself  as  but  the  temporary  tenant 
of  the  house  in  which  she  had  been  born,  and  where  her 
patience  and  soothing  attentions  had  so  long  "  rocked 
the  cradle  of  declining  age."  Her  communication  with 
Mr.    Mac-Morlan     encouraged   her    to   hope    that    she 


LUCY    BERTRAM    AND    UOMINIE    SAMPSON.  151 

would  not  be  suddenly  or  unkindly  deprived  of  this 
asylum  ;  but  fortune  had  ordered  otherwise. 

For  two  days  before  the  appointed  day  for  tlie  sale  of 
the  land  and  estate  of  Ellangowan,  Mac-Morlan  daily 
expected  the  appearance  of  Colonel  Mannering,  or  at 
least  a  letter  containing  powers  to  act  for  him.  But 
none  such  arrived.  "Could  I  have  foreseen  this,"  he 
said,  "I  would  have  travelled  Scotland  over,  but  I 
would  liave  found  some  one  to  bid  against  Glossin." 
Alas!  such  reflections  were  too  late.  The  appointed 
hour  arrived.  Mac-Morlan  spent  as  much  time  in  pre- 
liminaries as  decency  would  permit,  and  read  over  the 
articles  of  sale  as  slowly  as  if  he  had  been  reading  his 
own  death-warrant.  He  turned  )iis  eye  every  time  tlie 
door  of  the  room  opened,  with  hopes  which  grew  fainter 
and  fainter.  He  listened  to  every  noise  in  tlie  street  of 
the  village,  and  endeavoured  to  distinguish  in  it  the 
sound  of  hoofs  or  wheels.  It  was  all  in  vain.  After  a 
solemn  pause,  Mr.  Glossin  offered  the  upset  price  for 
the  lands  and  barony  of  Ellangowan.  No  reply  was 
made,  and  no  competitor  appeared :  so,  after  a  lapse  of 
the  usual  interval  by  the  running  of  a  sand-glass,  upon 
the  intended  purchaser  entering  the  proper  sureties, 
Mr.  Mac-Morlan  was  obliged,  in  technical  terms,  to 
"find  and  declare  the  sale  lawfully  completed,  and  to 
prefer  the  said  Gilbert  Glossin  as  tlie  purchaser  of  the 
said  lands  and  estates." 

An  express  arrived  about  six  o'clock  at  night,  "  very 
particularly  drunk,"  the  maid  servant  said,  with  a 
packet  from  Colonel  Mannering,  dated  four  days  back, 
at  a  town  about  a  hundred  miles  distance,  containing 
full  powers  to  Mr.  Mac-Morlan,  or  any  one  whom  ho 
might  employ,  to  make  the  intended  i)urchase,  and  stat- 
ing that  some  family  business  of  consequence  called  the 


152  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Colonel  himself  to  Westmoreland,  where  a  letter  would 
find  him. 

Mac-Morlan,  in  the  transports  of  his  wrath,  flung  the 
power  of  attorney  at  the  head  of  the  innocent  maid- 
servant, and  was  only  forcibly  witliheld  from  horse- 
whipping the  rascally  messenger,  by  whose  sloth  and 
drunkenness  the  disappointment  had  taken  place. 

Miss  Bertram  no  sooner  heard  this  painful  and  of 
late  unexpected  intelligence,  than  she  proceeded  in  the 
preparations  she  had  already  made  for  leaving  the  man- 
sion-house immediately.  Mr.  Mac-Morlan  assisted  her 
in  these  arrangements,  and  pressed  upon  her  so  kindly 
the  hospitality  of  his  roof,  until  she  should  be  enabled 
to  adopt  some  settled  plan  of  life,  that  she  felt  there 
would  be  unkindness  in  refusing  an  invitation  urged 
with  such  earnestness.  A  home,  therefore,  and  a  hos- 
pitable reception  were  secured  to  her,  and  she  went  on, 
with  better  heart,  to  pay  the  wages  and  receive  the 
adieus  of  the  few  domestics  of  her  father's  family. 

Where  there  are  estimable  qualities  on  either  side, 
this  task  is  always  affecting ;  the  present  circumstances 
rendered  it  doubly  so.  All  received  their  due,  and 
even  a  trifle  more  ;  and,  with  thanks  and  good  wishes, 
to  which  some  added  tears,  took  farewell  of  their  young 
mistress.  There  remained  in  the  parlour  only  Mr. 
Mac-Morlan,  who  came  to  attend  his  guest  to  his  house, 
Dominie  Sampson,  and  Miss  Bertram.  "  And  now," 
said  the  poor  girl,  "  I  must  bid  farewell  to  one  of  my 
oldest  and  kindest  friends.  —  God  bless  you,  Mr. 
Sampson  !  and  requite  to  you  all  the  kindness  of  your 
instructions  to  your  poor  pupil,  and  your  friendship  to 
him  that  is  gone  !  I  hope  I  sliull  often  see  you."  She 
slid  into  his  hand  a  paper  containing  some  gold  pieces, 
and  rose,  as  if  to  leave  the  room. 


LUCY    BERTRAM    AND    DOMINIE    SAMPSON.  153 

Dominie  Sampson  also  rose ;  but  it  was  to  stand 
aghast  witli  utter  astonishment.  The  idea  of  j)arting 
from  Miss  Lucy,  go  where  she  might,  had  never  once 
occurred  to  the  simplicity  of  his  understanding.  He 
laid  the  money  on  the  table.  "  It  is  certainly  inade- 
quate," said  Mac-Morlan,  mistaking  his  meaning;  "but 
the  circumstances  "  — 

Mr.  Sampson  waved  his  hand  impatiently,  —  "  It  is  not 
the  lucre,  it  is  not  the  lucre ;  but  that  I,  that  have  ate 
of  her  father's  loaf,  and  drunk  of  his  cup,  for  twenty 
years  and  more,  —  to  think  that  I  am  going  to  leave  her, 
—  and  to  leave  her  in  distress  and  dolour  !  —  No,  Miss 
Lucy,  you  need  never  think  of  it ;  while  I  live,  I  will 
not  separate  from  you.  I'll  be  no  burden ;  I  have 
thought  how  to  prevent  that.  But,  as  Ruth  said  unto 
Naomi,  '  Entreat  me  not  to  leave  thee,  nor  to  depart 
from  thee ;  for  wither  thou  goest  I  will  go,  and  where 
thou  dwellest  I  will  dwell :  thy  people  shall  be  my  peo- 
ple, and  thy  God  shall  be  my  God.  Where  thou  diest 
will  I  die,  and  there  will  I  be  buried.  The  Lord  do  so 
to  me,  and  more  also,  if  aught  but  death  do  part  thee 
and  me ! '" 

During  this  speech,  the  longest  ever  Dominie  Samp- 
son was  known  to  utter,  the  affectionate  creature's  eyes 
streamed  with  tears ;  and  neither  Lucy  nor  Mac-Morlan 
could  refrain  from  sympathizing  with  this  unexpected 
burst  of  feeling  and  attachment.  "  Mr.  Sampson,"  said 
Mac-Morlan,  after  having  had  resource  to  his  snuff-box 
and  handkerchief  alternately,  "my  house  is  large 
enough,  and  if  you  will  accept  of  a  bed  there,  while 
Miss  Bertram  honours  us  with  her  residence,  I  shall 
think  myself  very  happy,  and  my  roof  much  favoured 
by  receiving  a  man  of  your  worth  and  fidelity."  And 
then,  with  a  delicacy  which  was  meant  to  remove  any 


154  CHOICK    READINGS. 

objection  on  Miss  Bertram's  part,  he  added,  "  My  busi 
ness  requires  frequently  a  better  accountant  than  any 
of  my  present  clerks,  and  I  should  be  glad  to  have 
recourse  to  your  assistance  in  that  way  now  and  then." 

"Of  a  surety,  of  a  surety,"  said  Sampson  eagerly; 
"  I  understand  book-keeping  by  double  entry  and  the 
Italian  method." 

Our  postillion  had  thrust  himself  into  the  room  to 
announce  his  chaise  and  horses :  he  tarried,  unobserved, 
during  this  extraordinary  scene,  and  assured  Mrs.  Mac- 
Candlish  it  was  the  most  moving  thing  he  ever  saw ; 
"  the  death  of  the  gray  mare,  puir  Lizzie,  was  naething 
till't." 

The  visitors  were  hospitably  welcomed  by  Mrs.  Mac- 
Morlan,  to  whom,  as  well  as  to  others,  her  husband  inti- 
mated that  he  had  engaged  Dominie  Sampson's  assist- 
ance to  disentangle  some  perplexed  accounts ;  during 
which  occupation  he  would,  for  convenience-sake,  reside 
with  the  family. 

Dominie  Sampson  achieved  with  great  zeal  such  tasks 
as  Mr.  Mac-Morlan  chose  to  intrust  him  with ;  but  it 
was  speedily  observed  that  at  a  certain  hour  after  break- 
fast he  regularly  disappeared,  and  returned  again  about 
dinner-time.  The  evening  he  occupied  in  the  labour  of 
the  office.  On  Saturday,  he  appeared  before  Mr.  Mac- 
Morlan  with  a  look  of  great  triumph,  and  laid  on  the 
table  two  pieces  of  gold. 

"  What  is  this  for.  Dominie  ?  "  said  Mr.  Mac-Morlan. 

"  First,  to  indemnify  you  of  your  charges  in  my  be- 
half, worthy  sir ;  and  the  balance  for  the  use  of  Miss 
Lucy  Bertranio" 

"■  But,  Mr.  Sampson,  your  labour  in  the  office  much 
more  than  recompenses  me ;  I  am  your  debtor,  my  good 
friend." 


LUCV    BKRTIIAM    AND    DOMINIE    SAMPSON.  ISfj 

"Then  be  it  all,"  said  the  Dominie,  waving  his  liand, 
"  for  Miss  Lucy  Bertram's  behoof." 

"■  Well,  but,  Dominie,  this  money  "  — 

"■It  is  honestly  come  by,  Mr.  Mac-Morlan  ;  it  is  the 
bountiful  reward  of  a  young  gentleman  to  whom  I  am 
teaching  the  tongues;  reading  with  him  three  hours 
daily." 

A  few  more  questions  extracted  from  the  Dominie, 
that  this  liberal  pupil  was  young  Hazlewood,  and  that 
he  met  his  preceptor  daily  at  the  house  of  Mrs.  Mac- 
Candlish,  whose  proclamation  of  Sampson's  disinterested 
attachment  to  the  young  lady  had  procured  Iiim  this 
indefatigable  and  bounteous  scholar. 

Mac-Morlan  was  much  struck  with  what  he  heard. 
Little  art  was  necessary  to  sift  the  Dominie,  for  the 
honest  man's  head  never  admitted  any  but  the  most 
direct  and  simple  ideas.  "  Dees  Miss  Bertram  know 
how  your  time  is  engaged,  my  good  friend?  " 

"  Surely  not  as  yet ;  Mr.  Charles  recommended  it 
should  be  concealed  from  her,  lest  she  should  scruple  to 
accept  of  the  small  assistance  arising  from  it ;  but,"  he 
added,  "  it  would  not  be  possible  to  conceal  it  long, 
since  Mr.  Charles  proposed  taking  lessons  occasionally 
at  this  house." 

"  O,  he  does !  "  said  Mac-Morlan :  "  yes,  yes,  I  can 
understand  that  better.  And  pray,  Mr.  Sampson,  are 
these  three  hours  entirely  spent  in  construing  and  traiis- 
latmg?" 

"  Doubtless,  no ;  we  have  also  colloquial  intercourse 
to  sweeten  study." 

The  querist  proceeded  to  elicit  from  him  what  their 
discourse  chiefly  turned  upon. 

"Upon  our  past  meetings  at  EUangowan ;  and,  truly, 
I  think,  very  often  we  discourse  concerning  Miss  Lucy; 


156  CnOICK    READINGS. 

for  Mr.  Charles  Hazlewood,  in  that  particular,  resembleth 
me,  Mr.  Mac-Morlan.  When  I  begin  to  sj)eak  of  her  I 
never  know  when  to  stop  ;  and,  as  I  say,  (jocularly,)  she 
cheats  us  out  of  half  our  lessons." 

»oj*ioo 

THE  ISLE   OF   LONG   AGO. 

Benj.  F.  Taylor. 

O  A  WONDERFUL  Stream  is  the  river  Time, 

As  it  runs  through  tlie  reahii  of  tears, 
With  a  faultless  rhythm  and  a  musical  rhyme, 
And  a  boundless  sweep  and  a  surge  sublime, 

As  it  blends  with  the  Ocean  of  Years. 

How  the  Winters  are  drifting,  like  flakes  of  snow. 

And  the  Summers  like  buds  between, 
And  the  year  in  the  sheaf;  so  they  come  and  they  go, 
On  the  river's  breast,  with  its  ebb  and  flow. 

As  it  glides  in  the  shadow  and  sheen. 

There's  a  magical  isle  up  the  river  Time, 

Where  the  softest  of  airs  are  playing ; 
There's  a  cloudless  sky  and  a  ti'opical  clime, 
And  a  song  as  sweet  as  a  vesper  chime. 

And  the  Junes  with  the  roses  are  straying. 

And  the  name  of  that  Isle  is  the  Long  Ago, 

And  we  bury  our  treasures  there ; 
There  are  brows  of  beauty  and  bosoms  of  snow; 
There  are  heaps  of  dust,  —  but  we  loved  them  sol 

There  are  trinkets  and  tresses  of  hair ; 

There  are  fragments  of  song  that  nobody  sings, 

And  a  part  of  an  infant's  prayer ; 
There's  a  lute  unswept,  and  a  harp  without  strings; 
There  are  broken  vows  and  pieces  of  rings, 

And  the  garments  that  she  used  to  wear. 

There  are  hands  that  are  waved  when  the  fairy  shore 

By  the  mirage  is  lifted  in  air ; 
And  we  sometimes  hear  through  the  turbulent  roar 
Sweet  voices  we  heard  in  the  days  gone  before, 

^^^len  the  wind  down  the  river  is  fair. 


THE  pauper's  death-bed.  157 

O,  remember'd  for  aye  be  the  blessfed  Tsle, 

All  the  day  of  our  life  until  night ; 
When  the  evening  comes  with  its  beautiful  smile. 
And  our  eyes  are  closing  to  slumber  awhile, 

May  that  "  Greenwood  "  of  Soul  be  in  sight  I 

THE  PAUPER'S  DEATH-BED. 

C.  B.  South  EY. 

Tread  softly ;  bow  the  head, 

In  reverent  silence  bow ; 
No  passing-bell  doth  toU, 
Yet  an  immortal  soul 

Is  passing  now. 

Stranger,  however  great, 

With  lowly  reverence  bow : 
There's  one  in  that  poor  shed, 
One  by  that  paltry  bed, 

Greater  than  thou. 

Beneath  that  beggar's  roof, 

Lo !  Death  does  keep  his  state: 
Enter,  —  no  crowds  attend ; 
Enter,  —  no  guards  defend 

This  palace-gate. 

That  pavement,  damp  and  colcU 

No  smiling  courtiers  tread ; 
One  silent  woman  stands, 
Lifting  with  meagre  hands 

A  dying  head. 

No  mingling  voices  sound, — 

An  infant  wail  alone ; 
A  sob  suppress'd,  —  again 
That  short,  deep  gasp,  and  then 

The  parting  groan. 

O  change!     O  wondrt)U.s  change! 

Burst  are  the  prison-bars; 
This  moment  there,  so  low. 
So  agonized,  and  now 

Beyond  the  stars  1 


158  CHOICE    HEADINGS. 

O  change,  stupendous  change  1 
There  lies  the  soulless  clod! 
The  Sun  eternal  breaks,  — 
The  new  immortal  wakes, — 
Wakes  with  his  God  1 


OUE  WILLIE. 

Lie  lightly  on  our  Willie,  earth  ! 

Press  gently  on  his  side  : 
Eight  3'ears  he  grew  beside  our  hearth, 

Then  laid  him  down  and  died. 

And  let  his  sleep  be  peaceful  there, 
Whose  life  was  wrong'd  with  pain, 

For  sweet  his  spirit  was  and  fair, 
His  talk  like  gentle  rain. 

And  he  was  brave  of  soul  and  true. 
His  thoughts  the}-  knew  no  guile ; 

Nor  ever  fell  more  soft  the  dew 
Than  did  his  loving  smile. 

Patient  he  was,  from  murmur  free, 

Though  hard  his  childish  lot ; 
'Twould  grieve  you  much  his  pangs  to  see, 

And  yet  he  murmur'd  not. 

For  on  his  trusting  spirit  fell 

The  peace  that  passes  thinking  ; 
He  knew  the  love  of  Christ  to  tell, 
The  love  that  worketh  all  things  well, 
And  holds  the  meek  from  sinking. 

"  Thy  rod  and  staff  my  comfort  are," 

Thus  sang  our  precious  bo}' :  — 
"  Christ  leads  me  forth  with  tender  care, 
To  freshest  streams  He  guides  my  feet, 
At  His  own  table  bids  me  eat,  — 
Christ  lights  my  path  with  joy. 


FORTY    YEARS    AGO. 

"  What  though  the  vale  be  dark  aud  drear,"  — 

So  rail  our  Willie's  song,  — 
"•  I'll  pass  it  still,  and  feel  no  fear. 

For  Christ  will  make  me  strong." 

We  miss  him  here,  we  miss  him  there ; 

Nought  breaks  his  deep  reposing : 
His  voice  no  more  in  song  or  prayer, 
No  more  his  talk  by  day  we  share, 

Nor  kiss  when  day  is  closing. 

We  call,  —  he  answers  not  the  while  ; 

His  thoughts  we  cannot  measure  ; 
"  This  home  is  best,"  he  seems  to  smile, 

Our  lost  yet  living  treasure. 


rOETY   YEAES   AGO. 

I've  wander'd  to  the  village,  Tom, 

I've  sat  beneath  the  tree. 
Upon  the  school-house  play-ground. 

That  shelter'd  yoii  and  me  ; 
But  none  were  left  to  greet  me,  Tom, 

And  few  were  left  to  know, 
Who  play'd  with  us  upon  that  green 

Just  forty  years  ago. 

The  grass  was  just  as  green,  Tom, 

Barefooted  boys  at  play 
Were  sporting,  just  as  we  did  then, 

With  spirits  just  as  gay  : 
But  the  master  sleeps  upon  the  hill, 

Which,  coated  o'er  with  snow. 
Afforded  us  a  sliding-place 

Some  forty  years  ago. 


159 


160  CHOICE    READINGS. 

The  old  school-house  is  alter'd  some, 

The  benches  are  replaced 
By  new  ones,  very  like  the  same 

Our  jack-knives  had  defaced  ; 
But  the  same  old  bricks  are  in  the  wall, 

And  the  bell  swings  to  and  fro, 
It's  music  just  the  same,  dear  Tom, 

'Twas  fort}-  years  ago. 

The  boys  were  playing  some  old  game 

Beneath  that  same  old  tree  ; 
I  do  forget  the  name  just  now, — 

You've  pla3''d  the  same  with  me 
On  that  same  spot ;  'twas  play'd  with  knives, 

By  throwing  so  and  so  ; 
The  loser  had  a  task  to  do 

There  forty  years  ago. 

The  river's  running  just  as  still; 

The  willows  on  its  side 
Are  larger  than  they  were,  Tom  ; 

The  stream  appears  less  wide ; 
But  the  grape-vine  swing  is  miss'd  now, 

Where  once  we  play'd  the  beau, 
And  swung  our  sweethearts  —  prett}-  girls  — 

Just  forty  years  ago. 

The  spring  that  bubbled  'neath  the  hill, 

Close  by  the  spreading  beech, 
Is  very  low  ;  'twas  once  so  high 

That  we  could  scarcely  reach  ; 
And  kneeling  down  to  take  a  drink, 

Dear  Tom,  I  started  so, 
To  think  how  very  much  I've  changed 

Since  forty  years  ago. 

Near  by  that  spring,  upon  an  elm. 
You  know,  I  cut  your  name  ; 


NEARER    HOME. 

Your  sweetheart's  just  beneath  it,  Tom, 

Aud  you  did  mine  the  same. 
Some  heartless  wretch  has  peel'd  the  bark ; 

'Twas  dying  sure,  but  slow. 
Just  as  she  died  whose  name  you  cut 

There  forty  years  ago. 

My  lids  have  long  been  dry,  Tom, 

But  tears  came  in  my  eyes  ; 
I  thought  of  her  I  loved  so  well, 

Those  early  broken  ties. 
I  visited  the  old  church-yard, 

And  took  some  flowers  to  strow 
Upon  the  graves  of  those  we  loved 

Just  forty  years  ago. 

Some  are  in  the  church-yard  laid. 

Some  sleep  beneath  the  sea  ; 
But  none  are  left  of  our  old  class 

Excepting  you  and  me. 
And  when  our  time  shall  come,  Tom, 

And  we  are  call'd  to  go, 
I  hope  we'll  meet  with  those  we  loved 

Some  forty  years  ago. 


NEAREE.    HOME. 

Phcebe  Cary. 

One  sweetly  solemn  thought 
Comes  to  me  o'er  and  o'er: 

I'm  nearer  my  home  to-day 
Than  I  ever  have  been  before ; 

Nearer  my  Father's  house, 

Where  the  many  mansions  be ; 


161 


162  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Nearer  the  great  white  throne  ; 
Nearer  the  crystal  sea  j 

Nearer  the  bound  of  life, 

Where  we  lay  our  burdens  down  ; 

Nearer  leaving  the  cross, 
Nearer  gaining  the  crown ! 

But  the  waves  of  that  silent  sea 

Roll  dark  before  my  sight, 
That  brightly  the  other  side 

Break  on  a  shore  of  light. 

O,  if  my  mortal  feet 

Have  almost  gain'd  the  brink ; 

If  it  be  I  am  nearer  home 
Even  to-day  than  I  think  ; 

Father,  perfect  my  trust ; 

Let  my  spirit  feel  in  death, 
That  her  feet  are  firmly  set 

On  the  Eock  of  a  living  faith ! 

MICHAEL   AND  HIS   SON. 

William    Wordsworth. 

Near  the  tumultuous  brook  of  Green-head  Ghyll, 
In  that  deep  valley,  Michael  had  design'd 
To  build  a  Sheep-fold ;  and,  before  he  heard 
The  tidings  of  his  melancholy  loss, 
For  this  same  purpose  he  had  gather'd  up 
A  heap  of  stones,  which  by  the  streamlet's  edge 
Lay  thrown  together,  ready  for  the  work. 
With  Luke  that  evening  thitherward  he  walk'd  ; 
And  soon  as  tliey  had  reach'd  the  place  he  stopp'd. 
And  thus  the  old  man  spake  to  him  :   "  My  son, 
To-morrow  thou  wilt  leave  me  :  with  full  heart 


MICHAEL   AND   HIS   SON.  168 

I  look  upon  thee,  for  thou  art  the  same 

That  wert  a  promise  to  me  ere  thy  birth, 

And  all  th}^  life  hast  been  my  daily  joy. 

I  will  relate  to  thee  some  little  part 

Of  our  two  histories  ;  'twill  do  thee  good 

When  thou  art  from  me,  even  if  I  should  touch 

On  things  thou  canst  not  know  of.  —  After  thou 

First  camest  into  the  world,  —  as  oft  befalls 

To  new-born  infants,  —  thou  didst  sleep  away 

Two  da3's,  and  blessings  from  tliy  father's  tongue 

Then  fell  upon  thee.     Day  by  day  pass'd  on, 

And  still  I  loved  thee  with  increasing  love. 

Never  to  living  ear  came  sweeter  sounds 

Than  when  I  heard  thee  by  our  own  fire-side 

First  uttering,  without  words,  a  natural  tune  ; 

While  thou,  a  feeding  bade,  didst  in  thy  joy 

Sing  at  thy  mother's  breast.     Month  follow'd  month, 

And  in  the  open  fields  my  life  was  pass'd. 

And  on  the  mountains ;  else  I  think  that  thou 

Hadst  been  brought  up  upon  thy  Father's  knees. 

But  we  were  pla3'mates,  Luke  :  among  these  hills, 

As  well  thou  know'st,  in  us  the  old  and  young 

Have  play'd  together,  nor  with  me  didst  thou 

Lack  any  pleasure  which  a  boy  can  know." 

Luke  had  a  manly  heart ;  but  at  these  words 

He  sobb'd  aloud.     The  old  man  grasp'd  his  hand, 

And  said,  "  Nay,  do  not  take  it  so,  —  I  see 

That  these  are  things  of  which  I  need  not  speak. 

Even  to  the  utmost  I  have  been  to  thee 

A  kind  and  a  good  father :  and  herein 

I  but  repay  a  gift  which  I  myself 

Received  at  others'  hand  ;  for,  though  now  old 

Be3'ond  the  common  life  of  man,  T  still 

Remember  them  who  loved  me  in  my  3-outh. 

Both  of  them  sleep  together :  here  they  lived. 

As  all  their  forefathers  had  done  ;  and,  when 

At  length  their  time  was  come,  they  were  not  loth 


164  CHOICE    READINGS. 

To  give  their  bodies  to  the  family  mould. 

I  wish'd  that  thou  shouldst  live  the  life  they  lived  : 

But  'tis  a  long  time  to  look  back,  my  son, 

And  see  so  little  gain  from  threescore  j-ears. 

These  fields  were  burden'd  when  they  came  to  me ; 

Till  I  was  forty  3'ears  of  age,  not  more 

Than  half  of  m}'  inheritance  was  mine. 

I  toil'd  and  toil'd ;  God  bless'd  me  in  my  work. 

And  till  these  three  weeks  past  the  land  was  free. 

It  looks  as  if  it  never  could  endure 

Another  master.     Heaven  forgive  me,  Luke, 

If  I  judge  ill  for  thee,  but  it  seems  good 

That  thou  shouldst  go." 

At  this  the  old  man  paused ; 
Then,  pointing  to  the  stones  near  which  they  stood, 
Thus,  after  a  short  silence,  he  resumed  : 
"  This  was  a  work  for  us ;  and  now,  my  son, 
It  is  a  work  for  me.     But,  lay  one  stone,  — 
Here,  lay  it  for  me,  Luke,  with  thine  own  hands. 
Na}-,  boy,  be  of  good  hope  ;  —  we  both  may  live 
To  see  a  better  da}'.     At  eighty-four 
I  still  am  strong  and  hale  ;  —  do  thou  thy  part ; 
I  will  do  mine.  — I  will  begin  again 
With  man}'  tasks  that  were  resign'd  to  thee  : 
Up  to  the  heights,  and  in  among  the  storms, 
Will  I  without  thee  go  again,  and  do 
All  works  which  I  was  wont  to  do  alone. 
Before  I  knew  th}'  face.  — Heaven  bless  thee,  boy  ! 
Thy  heart  these  two  weeks  has  been  beating  fast 
With  many  hopes  ;  it  should  be  so,  —  3'es  —  3'es  ;  — 
I  knew  that  thou  couldst  never  have  a  wish 
To  leave  me,  Luke :  thou  hast  been  bound  to  me 
Only  by  links  of  love  :  when  thou  art  gone, 
What  will  be  left  to  us  ?  —  But  I  forget 
My  purposes.     Lay  now  the  corner-stone. 
As  I  requested  ;  and  hereafter,  Luke, 
When  thou  art  gone  away,  should  evil  men 


LEONARD  AND  MAKGARET.  165 

Be  thy  companions,  think  of  nic,  my  son, 
And  of  this  moment ;  hither  turn  tliy  tlioughts, 
And  God  will  strengthen  thee  :  amid  all  fear 
And  all  temptation,  Luke,  I  pray  that  thou 
Ma^'st  bear  in  mind  the  life  thy  fathers  lived, 
Who,  being  innocent,  did  for  that  cause 
Bestir  them  in  good  deeds.     Now,  fare  thee  well ! 
When  thou  returu'st,  thou  in  this  place  wilt  see 
A  work  which  is  not  here  :  a  covenant 
'Twill  be  between  us ;  but,  whatever  fate 
Befall  thee,  I  shall  love  thee  to  the  last, 
And  bear  thy  memory  with  me  to  the  grave." 

The  Shepherd  ended  here  ;  and  Luke  stoop'd  down, 
And,  as  his  father  had  requested. 
Laid  the  first  stone  of  the  Sheep-fold.     At  the  sight 
The  old  man's  grief  broke  from  him  ;  to  his  heart 
He  press'd  his  son,  he  kissed  him  and  wept ; 
And  to  the  house  together  they  return'd. 
Hush'd  was  that  house  in  peace,  or  seeming  peace, 
Ere  the  night  fell :  with  morrow's  dawn  the  boy 
Began  his  journe}^  and  when  he  had  reach'd 
The  public  way,  he  put  on  a  bold  face ; 
And  all  the  neighbours,  as  he  pass'd  their  doors, 
Came  forth  with  wishes  and  witli  farewell  prayers, 
That  follow'd  him  till  he  was  out  of  sight. 

»oj«io« 

LEONAKD   AND   MAEGAEET. 

Robert   Southev. 

Leonard  was  not  more  than  eight-and-twenty  when 
he  obtained  a  living,  a  few  miles  from  Doncaster.  He 
took  his  bride  with  him  to  the  vicarage.  The  house 
was  as  humble  as  the  benefice,  whicli  was  worth  less 
than  fifty  pounds  a-year;  but  it  was  soon  made  the 
neatest  cottage  in  the  country  round,  and  upon  a  hap- 


166  CHOICK    READINGS. 

pier  dwelling  the  Sun  never  shone.  A  few  acres  of 
good  glebe  were  attached  to  it ;  and  the  garden  was 
large  enough  to  afford  healthful  and  pleasureable  em- 
ployment to  the  owners.  The  course  of  true  love  never 
ran  more  smoothly ;  but  its  course  was  short.  Little 
more  than  five  years  from  the  time  of  their  marriage 
had  elapsed,  before  a  head-stone  in  the  adjacent  church- 
yard told  where  the  remains  of  Margaret  Bacon  had 
been  deposited  in  the  thirtieth  year  of  her  age. 

When  the  stupor  and  the  agony  of  that  bereavement 
had  passed  away,  the  very  intensity  of  Leonard's  affec- 
tion became  a  source  of  consolation.  Margaret  had 
been  to  him  purely  an  ideal  object  during  the  years  of 
his  youth  :  death  had  again  rendered  her  such.  Imagi- 
nation had  beautified  and  idolized  her  then  ;  faith  sanc- 
tified and  glorified  her  now.  She  had  been  to  him  all 
that  he  had  fancied,  all  that  he  had  hoped,  all  that  he 
had  desired.  She  would  again  be  so  in  Heaven.  And 
this  second  union  nothing  could  impede,  nothing  could 
interrupt,  nothing  could  dissolve.  He  had  only  to  keep 
himself  worthy  of  it  by  cherishing  her  memory,  hallow- 
ing his  heart  to  it  while  he  performed  a  parent's  duty 
to  their  child ;  and,  so  doing,  to  await  his  own  sum- 
mons, which  must  one  day  come,  which  was  every  day 
brought  nearer,  and  which  any  day  might  bring. 

The  same  feeling  which  from  his  childhood  had  re- 
fined Leonard's  heart,  keeping  it  pure  and  undefiled, 
had  also  corroborated  the  natural  strength  of  his  char- 
acter, and  made  him  firm  of  purpose.  It  was  a  saying 
of  Bishop  Andrewes  that  "good  husbandry  is  good 
divinity  "  ;  "  the  truth  whereof,"  says  Fuller,  "  no  wise 
man  will  deny."  Frugality  he  had  always  practised  as 
a  needful  virtue,  and  found  that  in  an  especial  manner 
it  brings  with  it  its    own    reward.     He    now  resolved 


LEONARD  AND  MARGARET.  167 

upon  scriipulouslj  setting  apart  a  fourth  of  his  small 
income,  to  make  a  provision  for  his  child,  in  case  of  her 
surviving  him,  as  in  the  natural  course  of  things  might 
be  expected.  If  she  should  be  removed  before  him,  — 
for  this  was  an  event  the  possibilit}^  of  which  he  always 
bore  in  mind, — he  resolved  that  whatever  had  been 
accumulated  with  this  intent  should  be  disposed  of  to 
some  other  pious  purpose  ;  for  such,  within  the  limits 
to  which  his  poor  means  extended,  he  properly  consid- 
ered this.  And,  having  entered  on  this  prudential 
course  with  a  calm  reliance  upon  Providence  in  case 
his  hour  should  come  before  that  purpose  could  be  ac- 
complished, he  was  without  any  earthly  hope  or  fear,  — 
those  alone  excepted,  from  which  no  parent  can  be 
free. 

The  child  had  been  christened  Deborah,  after  her 
maternal  grandmother,  for  whom  Leonard  ever  retained 
a  most  affectionate  and  reverential  remembrance.  She 
was  a  healthy,  happy  creature ;  at  first 

One  of  those  little  prating  girls 
Of  whom  fond  parents  tell  such  tedious  stories; 

afterwards,  as  she  grew  up,  a  favourite  with  the  village 
school-mistress,  and  with  the  whole  parish ;  docile,  good^ 
natured,  lively,  and  yet  considerate,  always  gay  as  a 
lark  and  busy  as  a  bee.  One  of  the  pensive  pleasures 
in  which  Leonard  indulged  was  to  gaze  on  her  unper- 
ceived,  and  trace  the  likeness  of  her  mother. 

That  resemblance,  which  was  strong  in  childhood, 
lessened  as  the  child  grew  up ;  for  Margaret's  counte- 
nance had  acquired  a  cast  of  meek  melancholy  during 
those  years  in  which  the  bread  of  bitterness  had  been 
her  portion :  and  when  hope  came  to  her,  it  was  that 
"hope  deferred  "  which  takes  from  the  cheek  its  bloom, 
even  when  the  heart,  instead  of  being  made  sick,  is  sus- 


168  CHOICE     READINGS. 

tained  by  it.  But  no  unhappy  circumstances  depressed 
the  constitutional  buoyancy  of  her  daughter's  spirits. 
Deborah  brought  into  the  workl  the  happiest  of  all 
Nature's  endowments,  an  easy  temper  and  a  light  heart. 
Resemblant,  therefore,  as  the  features  were,  the  dissi- 
militude of  expression  was  more  apparent ;  and,  when 
Leonard  contrasted  in  thought  the  sunshine  of  hilarity 
that  lit  up  his  daughter's  face,  with  the  sort  of  moon- 
light loveliness  which  had  given  a  serene  and  saint-like 
character  to  her  mother's,  he  wished  to  persuade  him- 
self that,  as  the  early  translation  of  the  one  seemed  to 
have  been  thus  prefigured,  the  other  might  be  destined 
to  live  for  the  happiness  of  others  till  a  good  old  age, 
while  length  of  years  in  these  should  ripen  her  for 
Heaven. 


THE  STABILITY  OF  VIETUE. 

T.  Marshall. 

The  sturdy  rock,  for  all  his  strength. 
By  raging  seas  is  rent  in  twain ; 

The  marble  stone  is  pierced  at  length 
With  little  drops  of  drizzling  rain  ; 

The  ox  doth  yield  unto  the  yoke. 

The  steel  obeys  the  hammer-stroke : 

The  stately  stag,  that  seems  so  stout, 
B}'  yelping  houuds  at  bay  is  set ; 

The  swiftest  bird  that  flies  about 
Is  caught  at  length  in  fowler's  net ; 

The  greatest  fish,  in  deepest  brook. 

Is  soon  deceived  with  subtle  hook : 

Yea,  man  liimself,  unto  whose  will 
All  things  are  bouuden  to  obey. 

For  all  his  wit  and  worth}'  skill, 
Doth  fade  at  length,  and  fall  away : 


THE    OCEAN    BURIAL.  16& 

There  is  no  thing  but  time  doth  waste  ; 
The  heavens,  the  J^arth  consume  at  last. 

But  virtue  sits  triumphing  still 

Upon  the  throne  of  glorious  fame  : 
Though  spiteful  death  mau's  body  kill, 

Yet  hurts  he  not  iiis  virtuous  name  : 
By  life  or  death  whate'er  betides, 
The  state  of  virtue  never  slides. 


THE    OCEAN  BUEIAL. 

Capt.  Wm.  H.  Saunders  (U.  S.  A.). 

[My  brother,  Capt.  Wm.  H.  Saunders,  wrote  "  Bury  me  not  in  the  deep 
sea  "  nearly  forty  years  ago,  published  it  in  the  "  Xew  Orleans  Picayune," 
gave  a  copy  to  a  lady;  after  his  death  (at  least  five  or  six  years  after)  she, 
I  think,  claimed  to  be  the  authoress  of  it,  but  I  had  the  original  manuscript 
and  knew  it  to  be  his  own  production. 

Leesburgh,  VA.,June  26th,  '83.  II.  Saunders.] 

"  O,  BURY  me  not  in  the  deep,  deep  sea  !  " 
These  words  came  low  and  mournful!}-. 
From  the  pallid  lips  of  a  youth,  who  lay 
On  his  cabin  couch,  at  the  close  of  day. 
He  had  wasted  and  piued,  'till  o'er  his  brow 
The  death-shade  had  slowly  pass'd  ;  and  now. 
When  the  land  and  his  fond-loved  home  were  nigh, 
They  had  gather'd  around  to  see  him  die. 

"  O,  bury  me  not  in  the  deep,  deep  sea, 

Where  the  billowy  shroud  will  roll  over  me, 

Where  no  light  will  break  through  the  dark  cold  wave, 

And  no  sunbeam  rest  upon  my  grave  ! 

It  matters  not,  I  have  oft  been  told, 

Where  the  body  shall  lie  when  the  heart  is  cold  ; 

Yet  grant  ye,  O,  grant  ye  this  one  boon  to  me, 

O,  bury  me  not  in  the  deep,  deep  sea ! 


170  CHOICE    READINGS. 

For  in  fanc}*  I've  listen'd  to  the  well-known  words, 
The  free  wild  winds,  and  the  songs  of  the  birds ; 
I  have  thought  of  home,  of  cot  and  bower, 
And  of  scenes  that  T  loved  in  childhood's  hour : 
I  have  even  hoped  to  be  laid,  when  I  died. 
In  the  church-yard  there,  on  the  green  hill-side  ; 
By  the  bones  of  my  fathers  my  grave  should  be : 
O,  bury  me  not  in  the  deep,  deep  sea. 

Let  my  death-slumbers  be  where  a  mother's  prayer 
And  a  sister's  tear  shall  be  mingled  there  : 
O,  'twill  be  sweet,  ere  the  heart's  throb  is  o'er. 
To  know,  when  its  fountains  shall  gush  no  more. 
That  those  it  so  fondly  hath  yearn'd  for  will  come 
To  plant  the  first  wild  flowers  of  Spring  on  m}'^  tomb  ; 
Let  me  lie  where  those  loved  ones  will  weep  o'er  me  : 
O,  bury  me  not  in  the  deep,  deep  sea. 

And  there  is  another ;  her  tears  would  be  shed 
For  him  who  lay  far  in  the  deep  ocean-bed  : 
In  hours  that  it  pains  me  to  think  of  now. 
She  hath  twined  these  loclvs  and  hath  kiss'd  this  brow : 
In  the  hair  she  hath  wreathed  shall  the  sea-snake  hiss. 
And  the  brow  she  hath  press'd  shall  the  cold  wave  kiss? 
For  the  sake  of  the  bright  one  that  waiteth  for  me, 
O,  bury  me  not  in  the  deep,  deep  sea. 

She  hath  been  in  my  dreams."  — ^  his  voice  fail'd  there. 
They  gave  no  heed  to  his  dying  prayer ; 
They  lower'd  him  slow  o'er  the  vessel's  side  ; 
Above  him  has  closed  the  dark,  cold  tide, 
"Where  to  dip  their  light  wings  the  sea-fowls  rest, 
Where  the  blue  waves  dance  o'er  the  ocean's  crest, 
Where  billows  bound,  and  the  winds  sport  free  : 
They  have  buried  him  there  in  the  deep,  deep  sea. 


THE   GOOD   SON.  171 

THE  GOOD  SON. 

R.   H.   Dana. 

There  is  no  virtue  without  a  characteristic  beauty 
to  make  it  particuhirly  loved  of  the  good,  and  to  make 
the  bad  ashamed  of  tlieir  neglect  of  it.  To  do  what  is 
right,  argues  superior  taste  as  well  as  morals;  and  those 
whose  practice  is  evil  feel  an  inferiority  of  intellectual 
power  and  enjoyment,  even  where  they  take  no  con- 
cern for  a  principle.  Doing  well  has  something  more  in 
it  than  the  fulfilling  of  a  duty.  It  is  a  cause  of  a  just 
sense  of  elevation  of  character ;  it  clears  and  strengthens 
the  spirits ;  it  gives  higher  reaches  of  thought ;  it  widens 
our  benevolence,  and  makes  the  current  of  our  peculiar 
affections  swift  and  deep. 

A  sacrifice  was  never  yet  offered  to  a  principle,  that 
was  not  made  uj)  to  us  by  self-approval,  and  the  consid- 
eration of  what  our  degradation  would  have  been  had 
we  done  otherwise.  Certainly,  it  is  a  pleasant  and  a 
wise  thing,  then,  to  follow  what  is  right,  when  we  only 
go  along  with  our  affections,  and  take  the  easy  way  of 
the  virtuous  propensities  of  our  nature. 

The  world  is  sensible  of  these  truths,  let  it  act  as  it 
may.  It  is  not  because  of  his  integrity  alone  that  it 
relies  on  an  honest  man ;  but  it  has  more  confidence  in 
his  judgment  and  wise  conduct,  in  the  long  run,  than  in 
the  schemes  of  those  of  greater  intellect,  who  go  at 
large  without  any  landmarks  of  principle.  So  that  vir- 
tue seems  of  a  double  nature,  and  to  stand  oftentimes 
in  the  place  of  what  we  call  talent. 

This  reasoning,  or  rather  feeling,  of  the  world,  is  all 
right ;  for  the  honest  man  only  falls  in  with  the  order 
of  Nature,  which  is  grounded  in  truth,  and  will  endure 
along  with  it.     And  such  a  hold  has  a  good  man  upon 


172  CHOICE    READINGS. 

the  world,  that,  even  where  he  has  not  been  called  upon 
to  make  a  sacrifice  to  a  principle,  or  to  take  a  stand 
against  wrong,  but  has  merely  avoided  running  into 
vices,  and  suffered  himself  to  be  borne  along  by  the 
delio-htful  and  virtuous  affections  of  private  life,  and 
has  found  his  pleasure  in  practising  the  duties  of  home, 
he  is  looked  up  to  with  respect,  as  well  as  regarded  with 
kindness.  We  attach  certain  notions  of  refinement  to 
his  thoughts,  and  of  depth  to  his  sentiment.  The 
impression  he  makes  on  us  is  beautiful  and  peculiar. 
Other  men  in  his  presence,  though  we  have  nothing  to 
object  to  them,  and  though  they  may  be  very  well  in 
their  way,  affect  us  as  lacking  something,  —  we  can 
hardly  tell  what,  —  a  certain  sensitive  delicacy  of  char- 
acter and  manner,  without  which  they  strike  us  as  more 
or  less  vulgar. 

No  creature  in  the  world  has  this  character  so  finely 
marked  in  him  as  a  respectful  and  affectionate  son,  — 
particularly  in  his  relation  to  his  mother.  Every  little 
attention  he  pays  her  is  not  only  an  expression  of  filial 
attachment,  and  a  grateful  acknowledgment  of  past 
cares,  but  is  an  evidence  of  a  tenderness  of  disposition 
which  moves  us  the  more,  because  not  looked  on  so 
much  as  an  essential  property  in  a  man's  character,  as 
an  added  grace,  which  is  bestowed  only  upon  a  few. 
His  regards  do  not  appear  like  mere  habits  of  duty,  nor 
does  his  watchfulness  of  his  mother's  wishes  seem  like 
taught  submission  to  her  will.  They  are  the  native 
courtesies  of  a  feeling  mind,  showing  themselves  amidst 
stern  virtues  and  masculine  energies,  like  gleams  of 
light  on  points  of  rocks.  They  are  delightful  as  evi- 
dences of  power  yielding  voluntary  homage  to  the  deli- 
cacy of  the  soul.  The  armed  knee  is  bent,  and  the 
heart  of  the  mailed  man  laid  bare. 


THE    WIDOW   AND    HER    SON.  173 

Feelings  that  would  seem  to  be  at  variance  with  each 
other  meet  togetlier  and  harmonize  in  the  breast  of  a 
son.  Every  call  of  the  mother  which  lie  answers  to, 
and  every  act  of  submission  which  he  performs,  are 
not  only  so  many  acknowledgments  of  her  authority, 
but  also  so  many  instances  of  kindness  and  marks  of 
protecting  regard.  The  servant  and  defender,  the 
child  and  guardian,  are  all  mingled  in  him.  The  world 
looks  on  him  in  this  way ;  and  to  draw  upon  a  man  the 
confidence,  the  respect,  and  the  love  of  the  world,  it  is 
enough  to  say  of  him,  he  is  an  excellent  son. 


THE  WIDOW  AND  HER  SON. 

Washington  Irving. 

During  my  residence  in  the  country,  I  used  fre- 
quently to  attend  at  the  old  village  church,  which 
stood  in  a  country  filled  with  ancient  families,  and  con- 
tained, within  its  cold  and  silent  aisles,  the  congregated 
dust  of  many  noble  generations.  Its  shadowy  aisles, 
its  mouldering  monuments,  its  dark  oaken  panelling, 
all  reverend  with  the  gloom  of  departed  years,  seemed 
to  fit  it  for  the  haunt  of  solemn  meditation.  A  Sunda}', 
too,  in  the  country,  is  so  holy  in  its  repose ;  such  a  pen- 
sive quiet  reigns  over  the  face  of  Nature,  that  every 
restless  passion  is  charmed  down,  and  we  feel  all  the 
natural  religion  of  the  soul  gently  springing  up  within 
us: 

Sweet  day,  so  pure,  so  calm,  so  bright, 
The  bridal  of  the  Earth  and  Sky ! 

I  do  not  pretend  to  be  what  is  called  a  devout  man : 
but  there  are  feelings  that  visit  me  in  a  country  church, 
amid  the  beautiful  serenity  of  Nature,  which  I  experi- 


174  CHOICE   READINGS. 

ence  nowhere  else ;  and,  if  not  a  more  religious,  I  think 
I  am  a  better  man  on  Sunday  than  on  any  other  day  of 
the  seven. 

But  in  this  church  I  felt  myself  continually  thrown 
back  upon  the  world  by  the  frigidity  and  pomp  of  the 
poor  worms  around  me.  The  only  being  that  seemed 
thoroughly  to  feel  the  humble  and  prostrate  piety  of  a 
true  Christian,  was  a  poor  decrepit  old  woman,  bending 
under  the  weight  of  years  and  infirmities.  She  bore 
the  trace  of  something  better  than  abject  poverty.  The 
lingerings  of  decent  pride  were  visible  in  her  appear- 
ance. Her  dress,  though  humble  in  the  extreme,  was 
scrupulously  clean.  Some  trivial  respect,  too,  had  been 
awarded  her,  for  she  did  not  take  her  seat  among  the 
village  poor,  but  sat  alone  on  the  steps  of  the  altar. 
She  seemed  to  have  survived  all  love,  all  friendship,  all 
society ;  and  to  have  nothing  left  her  but  the  hopes  of 
Heaven.  When  I  saw  her  feebly  rising  and  bending 
her  aged  form  in  j)rayer,  —  habitually  conning  her 
prayer-book,  which  her  palsied  hand  and  failing  eyes 
would  not  permit  her  to  read,  but  which  she  evidently 
knew  by  heart,  —  I  felt  persuaded  that  the  faltering 
voice  of  that  poor  woman  arose  to  Heaven  far  before 
the  responses  of  the  clerk,  the  swell  of  the  organ,  or  the 
chanting  of  the  choir. 

I  am  fond  of  loitering  about  country  churches,  and 
this  was  so  delightfully  situated,  that  it  frequently 
attracted  me.  It  stood  on  a  knoll,  round  which  a 
stream  made  a  beautiful  bend,  and  then  wound  its  way 
through  a  long  reach  of  soft  meadow  scenery.  The 
church  was  surrounded  by  yew-trees,  which  seemed 
almost  coeval  with  itself.  Its  tall  Gothic  spire  shot  up 
lightly  from  among  them,  with  rooks  and  crows  gen- 
erally wheeling  about  it.     I  was  seated  there  one  still, 


THE    WIDOW    AND    HER    SON.  175 

sunny  morning,  watching  two  labourers  who  were  dig- 
ging a  grave.  They  had  chosen  one  of  the  most  remote 
and  neglected  corners  of  the  church-yard,  where,  from 
the  number  of  nameless  graves  around,  it  would  appear 
that  the  indigent  and  friendless  were  huddled  into  the 
earth.  I  was  told  that  the  new-made  grave  was  for  the 
only  son  of  a  poor  widow. 

While  I  was  meditating  on  the  distinctions  of  wordly 
rank,  which  extend  thus  down  into  the  very  dust, 
the  toll  of  the  bell  announced  the  approach  of  the 
funeral.  Tliey  were  the  obsequies  of  poverty,  with 
which  pride  had  notliing  to  do.  A  coffin  of  the 
plainest  materials,  without  pall  or  other  covering,  was 
borne  by  some  of  the  villagers.  The  sexton  walked 
before  with  an  air  of  cold  indifference.  There  were  no 
mock  mourners  in  the  trappings  of  affected  woe ;  but 
there  was  one  real  mourner  who  feebly  tottered  after 
the  corpse.  It  was  the  aged  mother  of  the  deceased,  — 
the  poor  old  woman  whom  I  had  seen  seated  on  the 
steps  of  the  altar.  She  was  supported  by  an  humble 
friend,  who  was  endeavouring  to  comfort  her.  A  few 
of  the  neighbouring  poor  had  joined  the  train,  and  some 
children  of  the  village  were  running  hand  in  hand,  now 
shouting  with  unthinking  mirth,  and  now  pausing  to 
gaze,  with  childish  curiosity,  on  the  grief  of  the  mourner. 

As  the  funeral  train  approached  the  grave,  the  par- 
son issued  from  the  church  porch,  arrayed  in  the  sur- 
plice, with  prayer-book  in  hand,  and  attended  by  the 
clerk.  The  service,  however,  was  a  mere  act  of  charity. 
The  deceased  had  been  destitute,  and  the  survivor  was 
penniless.  It  was  shuffled  through,  therefore,  in  form, 
but  coldly  and  unfeelingly.  The  well-fed  priest  moved 
but  a  few  steps  from  the  church-door ;  his  voice  could 
scarcely  be  heard  at  the  grave ;  and  never  did  I  hear 


17G  CHOICE    READINGS. 

the  funeral  service,  that  sublime  and  touching  cere- 
mony, turned  into  such  a  frigid  mummery  of  words. 

I  approached  the  grave.  The  coffin  was  pkced  on 
the  ground.  On  it  was  inscribed  the  name  and  age  of 
the  deceased,  "George  Soiners,  aged  26  years."  The 
poor  mother  had  been  assisted  to  kneel  down  at  the 
head  of  it.  Her  withered  hands  were  clasped  as  if  in 
prayer,  but  I  could  perceive,  by  a  feeble  rocking  of  the 
body,  and  a  convulsive  motion  of  the  lips,  that  she  was 
gazing  on  tlie  last  relics  of  her  son  with  the  yearnings 
of  a  mother's  heart. 

The  service  being  ended,  preparations  were  made  to 
deposit  the  coffin  in  the  earth.  There  was  that  bustling 
stir  which  breaks  so  harshly  on  the  feelings  of  grief  and 
affection :  directions  given  in  the  cold  tones  of  business  ; 
the  striking  of  spades  into  sand  and  gravel ;  which,  at 
the  grave  of  those  we  love,  is,  of  all  sounds,  the  most 
withering.  The  bustle  arcund  seemed  to  waken  the 
mother  from  a  wretched  revery.  She  raised  her  glazed 
eyes,  and  looked  about  with  a  faint  wildness.  As  the 
men  approached  with  cords  to  lower  the  coffin  into  the 
grave,  she  wrung  her  hands  and  broke  into  an  agony 
of  grief.  The  poor  woman  who  attended  her  took  her 
by  the  arm,  endeavouring  to  raise  her  from  the  earth, 
and  to  whisper  something  like  consolation,  "  Nay,  now, 
—  nay,  now,  —  don't  take  it  so  sorely  to  heart !  "  She 
could  only  shake  her  head,  and  wring  her  hands,  as  one 
not  to  be  comforted. 

As  they  lowered  the  body  into  the  earth,  the  creaking 
of  the  cords  seem  to  agonize  her  ;  but  when,  on  some 
accidental  obstruction,  there  was  a  justling  of  the  coffin, 
all  the  tenderness  of  the  mother  burst  forth  ;  as  if  any 
harm  could  come  to  him  who  was  far  beyond  the  reach 
of  worldly  suffering. 


RIVERMOUTH    KOCKS.  177 

I  could  see  no  more ;  my  heart  swelled  into  my  throat, 
my  eyes  filled  with  tears ;  I  felt  as  if  I  were  acting  a 
barbarous  part,  in  standing  by  and  gazing  idly  on  this 
scene  of  maternal  anguish.  I  wandered  to  another  part 
of  the  church-yard,  where  I  remained  until  the  funeral 
train  had  dispersed. 

When  I  saw  the  mother  slowly  and  painfully  quitting 
the  grave,  leaving  behind  her  the  remains  of  all  that 
was  dear  to  her  on  Earth,  and  returning  to  silence  and 
destitution,  my  heart  ached  for  her.  What,  thought  I, 
are  the  distresses  of  the  rich !  they  have  friends  to 
soothe,  pleasures  to  beguile,  a  world  to  divert  and  dissi- 
pate their  griefs.  What  are  the  sorrows  of  the  young  I 
Their  growing  minds  soon  close  above  the  wound ; 
their  elastic  spirits  soon  rise  beneath  the  pressure ; 
their  green  and  ductile  affections  soon  twine  round 
new  objects.  But  the  sorrows  of  the  poor,  who  have  no 
outward  appliances  to  soothe ;  the  sorrows  of  the  aged, 
with  whom  life  at  best  is  but  a  wintry  day,  and  who 
can  look  for  no  after-growth  of  joy ;  the  sorrows  of  a 
widow,  aged,  solitary,  destitute,  mourning  over  an  only 
son,  the  last  solace  of  her  years ;  —  these  are  indeed 
sorrows  wliich  make  us  feel  the  impotency  of  con- 
solation. 


=H<o 


EIVEEMOUTH  ROOKS. 

John  G.  Wiiittier. 

RiVERMOUTH  Rocks  are  fair  to  see, 
B}'  dawn  or  sunset  shone  across, 

When  the  ebb  of  the  soa  has  left  them  free, 
To  dry  their  fringes  of  gold  green  moss  : 

For  there  the  river  comes  winding  down 

From  salt  sea-meadows  and  uplands  brown, 


178  CHOICE    READINGS. 

And  waves  ou  the  outer  rocks  afoam 
Shout  to  its  waters,  "  "Welcome  home  ! " 

And  fair  are  the  sunuy  isles  in  view 

East  of  the  grisly  Head  of  the  Boar, 
And  Agamenticus  lifts  its  blue 

Disk  of  a  cloud  the  woodlands  o'er; 
And  southerly,  when  the  tide  is  down, 
'Twixt  white  sea-waves  and  sand-hills  brown, 
The  beach-birds  dance  and  the  gray  gulls  wheel 
Over  a  floor  of  burnish'd  steel. 

Once  in  the  old  Colonial  days, 

Two  hundred  years  ago  and  more, 
A  boat  sail'd  down  through  the  winding  ways 

Of  Hampton  River  to  that  low  shore, 
Full  of  a  goodly  company 
Sailing  out  on  the  summer  sea, 
Veering  to  catch  the  land-breeze  light. 
With  the  Boar  to  left  and  the  Rocks  to  right. 

In  Hampton  meadows,  where  mowers  laid 

Their  scythes  to  the  swaths  of  salted  grass, 
"  Ah,  well-a-day  !  our  hay  must  be  made  !  " 
A  young  man  sigh'd,  who  saw  them  pass. 
Loud  laugh'd  his  fellows  to  see  him  stand 
Whetting  his  scythe  with  a  listless  hand, 
Hearing  a  voice  in  a  far-off  song, 
Watching  a  white  hand  ])eckoniHg  long. 

"  Fie  on  the  witch  !  "  cried  a  merr^'  girl, 

As  they  rounded  the  point  where  Goody  Cole 

Sat  by  her  door  with  her  wheel  atwirl, 
A  bent  and  blear-eyed  poor  old  soul. 

"  Oho  !  "  she  nuitter'd,  "  ye're  brave  to-day  ! 

But  I  hear  the  little  waves  laugh  and  say, 

'  The  broth  will  be  cold  that  waits  at  home ; 

For  it's  one  to  go,  but  another  to  come  ! '  " 


RI VERMOUTH    ROCKS. 


179 


"  She's  cursed,"  said  the  skipper ;  "  speak  her  fair ; 

I'm  scarv  always  to  see  her  shake 
Her  wicked  head,  with  its  wild  gray  hair, 

And  nose  like  a  hawk,  and  eyes  like  a  snake." 
But  merrily  still,  with  laugh  and  shout, 
From  Hampton  River  the  boat  sail'd  out, 
Till  the  huts  and  the  flakes  on  the  Star  seera'd  nigh, 
And  they  lost  the  scent  of  the  pines  of  Rye. 

They  dropp'd  their  lines  in  the  lazy  tide, 
Drawing  up  haddock  and  mottled  cod  ; 

They  saw  not  the  shadow  that  walk'd  beside, 
They  heard  not  the  feet  with  silence  shod : 

But  thicker  and  thicker  a  hot  mist  grew, 

Shot  by  the  lightnings  through  and  through  ; 

And  muffled  growls,  like  the  growl  of  a  beast. 

Ran  along  the  sky  from  west  to  east. 

Then  the  skipper  look'd  from  the  darkening  sea 

Up  to  the  dimm'd  and  wadiug  Sun  ; 
But  he  spake  like  a  brave  man  cheerily, 

"  Yet  there  is  time  for  our  homeward  run." 
Veering  and  tacking,  they  backward  wore  ; 
And,  just  as  a  breath  from  the  woods  ashore 
Blew  out  to  whisper  of  danger  past. 
The  wrath  of  the  storm  came  down  at  last ! 

The  skipper  hanl'd  at  the  heavy  sail : 

"  God  be  our  help,"  he  only  cried, 
As  the  roaring  gale,  like  the  stroke  of  a  flail, 

Smote  the  boat  on  its  starboard  side. 
The  shoalsmen  look'd,  but  saw  alone 
Dark  films  of  rain-cloud  slantwise  blown, 
Wild  rocks  lit  up  by  the  lightning's  glare, 
The  strife  and  torment  of  sea  and  air. 

Goody  Cole  look'd  out  from  her  door : 

The  Isles  of  Shoals  were  drown'd  and  gone, 


180  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Scarcely  she  saw  the  Head  of  the  Boar 

Toss  the  foam  from  tusks  of  stone. 
She  clasp'd  her  hands  with  a  grip  of  pain, 
The  tear  on  her  cheek  was  not  of  rain  : 
"  They  are  lost,"  she  mutter'd,  "  boat  and  crew! 
Lord,  forgive  me  !  my  words  were  true  !  " 

Suddenly  seaward  swept  the  squall ; 

Tiie  low  Sun  smote  through  cloudy  rack ; 
The  shoals  stood  clear  in  the  light,  and  all 

The  trend  of  the  coast  lay  hard  and  black  : 
But,  far  and  wide  as  eye  could  reach, 
No  life  was  seen  upon  wave  or  beach ; 
The  boat  that  went  out  at  morning  never 
Sail'd  back  again  into  Hampton  River. 

O  mower,  lean  on  thy  bended  snath. 

Look  from  the  meadows  green  and  low : 
The  wind  of  the  sea  is  a  waft  of  death, 

The  waves  are  singing  a  song  of  woe  ! 
By  silent  river,  by  moaning  sea. 
Long  and  vain  shall  thy  watching  be  : 
Never  again  shall  the  sweet  voice  call, 
Never  the  white  hand  rise  and  fall ! 

O  Ri vermouth  Rocks,  how  sad  a  sight 
Ye  saw  in  the  light  of  breaking  day ! 
Dead  faces  looking  up  cold  and  white 

From  sand  and  sea-weed  where  they  lay. 
The  mad  old  witch-wife  wail'd  and  wept, 
And  cursed  the  tide  as  it  backward  crept : 
"  Crawl  back,  crawl  back,  blue  water-snake  ! 
Leave  3'our  dead  for  the  hearts  that  break  !  " 

Solemn  it  was  in  that  old  da}- 

In  Hampton  town  and  its  log-built  cluirch. 
Where  side  by  side  the  coffins  la}^ 

And  the  mourners  stood  in  aisle  and  porch : 


SONG    OF    THE    MYSTIC.  181 

In  the  singiug-seats  young  e3-es  were  dim, 
The  voices  falter'd  that  raised  the  liymn, 
And  Father  Dalton,  grave  and  stern, 
Sobb'd  through  his  prayer  and  wept  in  turn. 

And  the  Sun  set  paled,  and  warm'd  once  more 

With  a  softer,  tenderer  after-glow ; 
In  the  east  was  nioonrise  with  boats  off-shore 

And  sails  in  the  distance  drifting  slow  : 
The  beacon  glimmor'd  from  Portsmouth  bar, 
The  White  Isle  kindled  its  great  red  star ; 
And  life  and  death  in  my  old-time  lay 
Mingled  in  peace  like  the  night  and  day  ! 

SONG   or  THE  MYSTIC. 

Father  A.  J.  Ryan. 

I  WALK  down  the  valley  of  sileuce,  — 
Down  the  dim  voiceless  valley,  —  alone  ; 

And  I  hear  not  the  fall  of  a  footstep 

Around  me,  —  save  God's  and  my  own  ; 

And  the  hush  of  my  heart  is  as  holy 
As  hours  when  angels  have  flown  ! 

Long  ago,  was  I  weary  of  voices 

Whose  music  my  heart  could  not  win ; 

Long  ago,  I  was  weary  of  noises 

That  fretted  my  soul  with  their  din  ; 

Long  ago,  was  I  weary  of  places 

Where  I  met  but  the  luunan,  —and  sin. 

I  walk'd  through  the  world  with  the  worldly^ 
I  craved  what  the  world  never  gave, 

And  I  said,  "  In  the  world  each  ideal. 
That  shines  like  a  star  on  life's  wave. 

Is  toss'd  on  the  shore  of  the  real. 

And  sleeps  like  a  dream  in  a  grave." 


182  CHOICE    READINGS. 

And  still  did  I  pine  for  the  perfect, 

And  still  found  the  false  with  the  true ; 

I  sought  not  the  human  for  Heaven, 
But  caught  a  mere  glimpse  of  the  blue  : 

And  I  wept  when  the  clouds  of  the  mortal 
Veil'd  even  that  glimpse  from  my  view. 

And  I  toil'd  on,  heart-tired  of  the  human, 
And  I  mourn'd  not  the  mazes  of  men, 

Till  I  knelt  long  ago  at  an  altar. 

And  heard  a  voice  call  me  :  since  then 

I  walk  down  the  valley  of  silence 
That  lies  far  beyond  mortal  ken. 

Do  you  ask  what  I  found  in  the  valley? 

'Tis  my  trysting-place  with  the  Divine ; 
And  I  fell  at  the  feet  of  the  H0I3', 

And  above  me  a  voice  said  "•  Be  mine." 
Then  rose  from  the  depths  of  my  spirit 

An  echo,  "  My  heart  shall  be  thine." 

Do  3'ou  ask  how  I  live  in  the  valley? 

I  weep,  and  I  dream,  and  I  pray  ; 
But  my  tears  are  as  sweet  as  the  dewdrops 

That  fall  on  the  roses  of  May  : 
And  my  prayer  like  a  perfume  from  censers 

Ascendeth  to  God  night  and  day. 

In  the  hush  of  the  valley  of  silence 
I  dream  all  the  songs  that  I  sing ; 

And  the  music  floats  down  the  dim  valley 
Till  each  finds  a  word  for  a  wing 

That  to  men,  like  the  dove  of  the  deluge, 
The  message  of  peace  they  may  bring. 

But  far  on  the  deep  there  are  billows 
That  never  shall  break  on  the  beach, 


LUCY   GRAY, 


183 


And  I  have  heard  songs  in  the  silence 
That  never  shall  float  into  speech ; 

And  I  have  had  dreams  in  the  valley 
Too  lofty  for  language  to  reach. 

And  I  have  seen  thoughts  in  the  valley,  — 
Ah  me  !  how  my  spirit  was  stirr'd  ! 

And  they  wore  holy  veils  on  their  faces, 
Their  footsteps  can  scarcely  be  heard ; 

They  pass  through  the  valley  like  virgins. 
Too  pure  for  the  touch  of  a  word. 

Do  you  ask  me  the  place  of  the  valley, 
Ye  hearts  that  are  harrow'd  by  care? 

It  lieth  afar  between  mountains, 
And  God  and  His  angels  are  there  ; 

And  one  is  the  dark  mount  of  sorrow, 
And  one  the  bright  mountain  of  prayer. 


LUCY  GEAY. 

William  Wordsworth. 

Oft  I  had  heard  of  Lucy  Gray ; 
And,  when  I  cross'd  the  wild, 
I  chanced  to  see  at  break  of  day 
The  solitary  child. 

No  mate,  no  comrade  Lucy  knew ; 
She  dwelt  on  a  wide  moor,  — 
The  sweetest  thing  that  ever  grew 
Beside  a  human  door  ! 

You  yet  may  spy  the  fawn  at  play, 
The  hare  upon  the  green  ; 
But  the  sweet  face  of  Lucy  Gray 
Will  never  more  be  seen. 


184  CHOICE    RKADINGS. 

"  To-night  will  be  a  stormy  night,  — 
You  to  the  town  must  go  ; 
And  take  a  lantern,  Child,  to  light 
Your  mother  through  the  snow." 

"  That,  Father,  will  I  gladly  do : 
'Tis  scarcely  afternoon ; 
The  minster-clock  has  just  struck  two, 
And  yonder  is  the  Moon  !  " 

At  this  the  Father  raised  his  hook. 
And  snapp'd  a  fagot-band  ; 
He  plied  his  work  ;  —  and  Lucy  took 
The  lantern  in  her  hand.  * 

Not  blither  is  the  mountain  roe : 
With  many  a  wanton  stroke 
Her  feet  disperse  the  powdery  snow, 
That  rises  up  like  smoke. 

The  storm  came  on  before  its  time : 
She  wander'd  up  and  down  ; 
And  many  a  hill  did  Lucy  climb. 
But  never  reach'd  the  town. 

The  wretched  parents  all  that  night 
Went  shouting  far  and  wide; 
But  there  was  neither  sound  nor  sight 
To  serve  them  for  a  guide. 

At  day-break  on  a  hill  they  stood 
That  overlook'd  the  moor ; 
And  thence  they  saw  the  bridge  of  wood, 
A  furlong  from  their  door. 

They  wept  ,  and,  turning  homeward,  cried, 
"  In  Heaven  we  all  shall  meet "  ; 
When  in  the  snow  the  mother  spied 
The  print  of  Luc^-'s  feet. 


OUR    FOLKS.  185 

Then  downwards  from  the  steep  hill's  edge 
The}'  track'd  the  footmarks  small  ; 
And  through  the  broken  hawthorn  hedge, 
And  by  the  long  stone-wall ; 

And  then  an  open  field  they  cross'd : 
The  marks  were  still  the  same ; 
The}'  track'd  them  on,  nor  ever  lost; 
And  to  the  bridge  they  came. 

The}'  foUow'd  from  the  snowy  bank 
Those  footmarks,  one  by  one, 
Into  the  middle  of  the  plank  ; 
And  further  there  were  none  ! 

Yet  some  maintain  that  to  this  day 
She  is  a  living  child  ; 
That  you  may  see  sweet  Lucy  Gray 
Upon  the  lonesome  wild. 

O'er  rough  and  smooth  she  trips  along. 
And  never  looks  behind; 
And  sings  a  solitary  song 
That  whistles  in  the  wind. 

OUE  FOLKS. 

Ethel  Lynn. 

*'  Hi  !  Harry  Holly  !  Halt ;  and  tell 

A  fellow  just  a  thing  or  two  : 
You've  had  a  furlough,  been  to  see 

How  all  the  folks  in  Jersey  do. 
It's  months  ago  since  I  was  there,  — 

I,  and  a  bullet  from  Fair  Oaks  : 
When  you  were  home,  —  old  comrade,  say, 

Did  you  see  any  of  our  folks  ? 


186  CHOICE    READINGS. 

You  did?     Shake  hands  ;  —  O,  ain't  I  glad? 

For,  if  I  do  loolv  griin  and  rough, 
I've  got  some  feelin'  — 

People  think 

A  soldier's  heart  is  mighty  tough ; 
But,  Harry,  when  the  bullets  fly. 

And  hot  saltpetre  flames  and  smokes, 
While  whole  battalions  lie  afield, 

One's  apt  to  think  about  his  folks. 

And  so  you  saw  them,  —  when  ?  and  where? 

The  old  man,  —  is  he  hearty  yet? 
And  mother,  —  does  she  fade  at  all  ? 

Or  does  she  seem  to  pine  and  fret 
For  me  ?     And  Sis  ?  —  has  she  grown  tall  ? 

And  did  you  see  her  friend,  —  you  know 
That  Annie  Moss  — 

(How  this  pipe  chokes !) 
Where  did  you  see  her?  —  tell  me,  Hal, 

A  lot  of  news  about  our  folks. 

You  saw  them  in  the  church,  — you  say  ; 

It's  likely,  for  they're  always  there. 
NotSunda}'?  no?     A  funeral?     Who? 

Who,  Hariy  ?  how  you  shake  and  stare ! 
All  well,  you  say,  and  all  were  out ; 

What  ails  j'ou,  Hal?     Is  this  a  hoax? 
Why  don't  you  tell  me,  like  a  man. 

What  is  the  matter  with  our  folks?" 

"  I  said  all  well,  old  comrade,  true ; 

I  say  all  well,  for  He  knows  best 
Who  takes  the  young  ones  in  His  arms, 

Before  the  Sun  goes  to  the  west. 
The  axe-man  Death  deals  right  and  left. 

And  flowers  fall  as  well  as  oaks ; 
A.nd  so  — 

Fair  Annie  blooms  no  more  I 

And  that's  the  matter  with  your  folks. 


POOR    LITTLE    JOE.  187 

See,  this  brown  curl  was  kept  for  yon  ; 

And  this  wliite  blossom  from  her  breast; 
And  here,  — your  sister  liessie  wrote 

A  letter,  telling  all  the  rest. 
Bear  up,  old  friend." 

Nobody  speaks ; 
Only  the  old  camp  raven  croaks, 
And  soldiers  wliisi)er : 

"Boys,  be  still; 

There's  some  Joad  news  from  Grainger's  folks." 

He  turns  his  back  —  the  only  foe 

That  ever  saw  it  —  on  this  grief, 
And,  as  men  will,  keeps  down  the  tears 

Kind  Nature  sends  to  Woe's  relief. 

Then  answers  he : 

"Ah,  Hal,  I'll  try; 

But  in  my  throat  there's  something  chokes, 
Because,  you  see,  I've  thought  so  long 

To  count  her  in  among  our  folks. 

I  s'pose  she  must  be  happy  now ; 

But  still  I  will  keep  thinkiug  too, 
I  could  have  kept  all  trouble  off, 

By  being  tender,  kind,  and  true  ; 

But  maybe  not. 

She's  safe  up  there  ; 

And  when  His  Hand  deals  other  strokes, 

She'll  stand  by  Heaven's  gate,  I  know. 

And  wait  to  welcome  in  our  folks." 

POOR  LITTLE   JOE. 

Peleg  Arkwright. 

Prop  yer  eyes  wide  open  Joey, 

Fur  I've  brought  you  sumpin'  great. 
A^yplesf    No,  a  heap  sight  better  1 


188  CHOICE    KKADINGS. 

Don't  yon  ttike  no  int'rost?     Wait! 
Flowers,  Joe,  —  I  kiiow'd  you'd  like  'em, — 

Ain't  them  scrumptious?     Ain't  tliem  high! 
Tejirs,  my  boy?     Wot's  them  fur,  Joey? 

There,  —  poor  little  Joe  !  —  don't  cry  ! 

I  was  skip[)in'  past  a  winder, 

Where  a  bang-up  lady  sot, 
All  amongst  a  lot  of  ))Nshes, — 

Each  one  climbin'  from  a  pot; 
Every  busli  had  (lowers  on  it,  — 

Pretty?     Mebbc  not!  O,  no! 
Wish  you  could  a  seen  'em  growin', 

It  was  sich  a  stunnin'  show. 

Well,  I  thought  of  you,  poor  feller, 

Lyiu'  here  so  sick  and  weak, 
Never  knowin'  any  comfort ; 

And  I  puts  on  lots  o'  cheek, 
"  Missus,"  says  I,  "if  you  please,  mum, 

Could  I  ax  3'ou  for  a  rose  ? 
For  my  little  brother,  missus,  — 

Never  seed  one,  I  suppose." 

Then  I  told  her  all  about  you,  — 

How  I  bring'd  you  np,  poor  Joe ! 
(Lackin'  women  folks  to  do  it:) 

.Sich  a'  imp  you  was,  you  know,  — 
Till  yer  got  that  awful  tumble, 

Jist  as  I  had  l)roke  yer  in, 
(Hard  work,  too,)  to  earn  yer  livin' 

Blackin'  boots  for  honest  tin. 

How  that  tumble  crippled  of  you, 
So's  you  couldn't  hyi)er  much  ! 

Joe,  it  hurted  when  I  seen  you 
Fur  the  first  time  with  yer  crutch. 

"  But,"  I  says,  "  he's  laid  up  now,  mum. 


rooli    I.ITTI.K    JOE.  189 

'Pears  to  weaken  every  day": 

Joe,  she  up  and  wont  to  ciittin', — 

Thai's  the  how  ol"  this  hokay. 

Say  !   It  seems  to  me,  oh'  fcUer, 

You  is  (luitc  y(!rseir  to-night ; 
Kind  o'  ehirk  ;  it's  been  a  fortuit 

Sence  yer  e\es    has  been  so  bright. 
Betler?     Well,  I'm  ghid  to  hear  it! 

Yes,  they're  mighty  pretty,  Joe. 
Smellin'  of  'em's  niade  you  happy  ? 

Well,  1  thought  it  wouhl,  you  know! 

Never  see  tlie  country,  did  you? 

Flowers  growin'  everywhere ! 
Sometime  when  you're  better,  Joey, 

Mi'l)be  I  kin  take  you  tiiere. 
F/oircrs  in  Jledvon?    'M  —  I  s'pose  so; 

Duuno  nuich  about  it,  though ; 
Ain't  as  lly  as  wot  I  might  be 

On  tiiem  topics,  little  Joe. 

But  I've  heard  it  hinted  somewheres 

That  in  Heaven's  golden  gates 
Things  is  everlastin'  cheerful, — 

B'lieve  that's  wot  tlie  Bible  states. 
Likewise,  there  folks  don't  git  hungry  ; 

So  good  people,  when  they  dies, 
Finds  themselves  well  fix'd  forever,  — 

Joe,  my  boy,  wot  ails  yer  eyes? 

Thought  they  look'd  a  little  sing'ler. 

O,  no  !  don't  you  have  no  fear; 
Heaven  was  inade  fur  such  as  you  is,  — 

Joe,  wot  makes  you  look  so  queer? 
Here,  wake  up  !     O,  don't  look  that  way  ! 

Joe  !  My  boy  !  Hold  u|)  yer  head  ! 
Here's  yer  (lowers,  —  you  dropi)'d  'cm  Joey  !  — 

O  my  God  !  can  Joe  be  dead? 


190  CHOICK    HEADINGS. 


rv. 

REVERENCE,  DEVOTION,  ADORATION. 


OATO'S   SOLILOQUY   ON   THE   IMMOETALITY   OF  THE 

SOUL. 

Joseph  Addison. 

It  must  be  so,  —  Plato,  thou  reason'st  well !  — 

Else,  whence  this  pleasing  hope,  this  fond  desire, 

This  longing  after  innnortality  ? 

Or  whence  this  secret  dread  and  inward  horror 

Of  falling  into  nought?     Why  shrinks  the  soul 

Back  on  herself,  and  startles  at  destruction  ?  — 

'Tis  the  Divinity  that  stirs  within  us  ; 

'Tis  Heaven  itself  that  points  out  an  Hereafter, 

And  intimates  Eternit}^  to  man. 

Eternity  !  —  thou  pleasing,  dreadful  thought ! 

Through  what  variety  of  untried  being, 

Through  what  new  scenes  and  changes  must  we  pass ! 

The  wide,  th'  unbounded  prospect  lies  before  me  ; 

But  shadows,  clouds  and  darkness  rest  upon  it. 

Here  will  I  hold.     If  there's  a  Power  above  us,  — 

And  that  there  is,  all  Nature  cries  aloud 

Through  all  her  works,  —  He  must  delight  in  virtue  ; 

And  that  which  He  delights  in  must  be  happy. 

But  when  ?  or  where  ?     This  world  —  was  made  for  Caesar 

I'm  weary  of  conjectures,  —  this  must  end  them. 

Thus  am  I  doubly  arm'd.     My  death  and  life, 

My  bane  and  antidote,  are  l)otli  before  me. 

This,  in  a  moment,  brings  me  to  an  end  ; 

But  this  informs  me  I  shall  never  die  ! 


TO   THE    SUPREME   BEINGU  191 

The  soul,  secured  in  her  existence,  smiles 
At  the  drawn  dagger,  and  defies  its  point.  — 
The  stars  shall  fade  away,  the  Sun  himself 
Grow  dim  with  age,  and  Nature  sink  in  years ; 
But  thou  shalt  flourish  in  immortal  youth. 
Unhurt  amid  the  wai-  of  elements, 
The  wreck  of  matter,  and  the  crash  of  worlds ! 

— »ot«ioo 

TO  THE  SUPEEME  BEING. 

Michael  Angelo:   Transiated  by  V^OKOiwoKTH. 

The  prayers  I  make  will  then  be  sweet  indeed 

If  Thou  the  spirit  give  by  which  I  pray  : 

My  unassisted  heart  is  barren  clay, 

That  of  its  native  self  can  nothing  feed : 

Of  good  and  pious  works  Thou  art  the  seed, 

That  quickens  only  where  Thou  say'st  it  may : 

Unless  Thou  shew  to  us  Thine  own  true  way 

No  man  can  find  it ;  Father,  Thou  must  lead. 

Do  Thou,  then,  breathe  those  thoughts  into  my  mind 

By  which  such  virtue  may  in  me  be  bred 

That  in  Thy  holy  footsteps  I  may  tread  ; 

The  fetters  of  my  tongue  do  Thou  unbind. 

That  I  may  have  the  power  to  sing  of  Thee, 

And  sound  Thy  praises  everlastingly. 

Eternal  Lord !  eased  of  a  cumbrous  load, 

And  loosen'd  from  the  world,  I  turn  to  Thee  ; 

Shun,  like  a  shatter'd  bark,  the  storm,  and  flee 

To  Thy  protection  for  a  safe  abode. 

The  crown  of  thorns,  hands  pierced  upon  the  tree, 

The  meek,  benign,  and  lacerated  face. 

To  a  sincere  repentance  promise  grace. 

To  the  sad  soul  give  hope  of  pardon  free. 

With  justice  mark  not  Thou,  O  Light  divine  ! 

My  fault,  nor  hear  it  with  Thy  sacred  ear ; 


192  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Neither  put  forth  that  wa}^  Thy  arm  severe  ; 
Wash  with  thy  blood  my  sius  ;  thereto  incline 
More  readily  the  more  my  ^ears  require 
Help,  and  forgiveness  speedy  and  entire. 


A  HYMN. 

S.  T.  Coleridge. 

My  Maker  !  of  Thy  power  the  trace 
In  ever^'  creature's  form  and  face 

The  wondering  soul  surveys  : 
Thy  wisdom,  infinite  above 
Seraphic  thought,  a  Father's  love 

As  infinite  displays ! 

From  all  that  meets  or  eye  or  ear, 
There  falls  a  genial  holy  fear 
Which,  like  the  heavy  dew  of  morn, 
Refreshes  while  it  bows  the  heart  forlorn. 

Great  God,  Thy  works  how  wondrous  fair  I 
Yet  sinful  man  didst  Thou  declare 

The  whole  Earth's  voice  and  mind: 
Lord,  even  as  Thou  all-present  art, 
O,  may  we  still  with  heedful  heart 

Til}'  presence  know  and  find  ! 
Then,  come  what  will  of  weal  or  woe, 
Joy's  bosom-spring  shall  steady  flow  ; 
For,  though  'tis  Heaven  Thyself  to  see. 
Where  but  Thy  Shadoio  falls,  Grief  cannot  be  I 


THE  CLOSING  TEAR.  10.3 

THE   OLOSINaYEAR. 

George  D.  Prentice. 

'Tis  miduight's  holy  hour,  and  silence  now 

Is  brooding  like  a  gentle  spirit  o'er 

The  still  and  pulseless  world.     Hark  !  on  tlie  winds 

The  bell's  deep  tones  are  swelling,  —  'tis  the  knell 

Of  the  departed  3'ear.     No  funeral  train 

Is  sweeping  past ;  yet,  on  the  stream  and  wood, 

With  melancholy  light,  the  moon-beams  rest 

Like  a  pale,  spotless  shroud  ;  the  air  is  stirr'd 

As  b}'  a  mourner's  sigh ;  and  on  yon  cloud, 

That  floats  so  still  and  placidl}'  through  heaven, 

The  spirits  of  the  seasons  seem  to  stand,  — ■ 

Young  Spring,  briglit  Summer,  Autumn's  solemn  form, 

And  Winter  with  its  aged  locks,  —  and  breathe, 

In  mournful  cadences  that  come  abroad 

Like  the  far  wind-harp's  wild  and  touching  wail, 

A  melanchol}-  dirge  o'er  the  dead  year. 

Gone  from  the  Earth  forever. 

'Tis  a  time 
For  memory  and  for  tears.     Within  the  deep. 
Still  chambers  of  the  heart,  a  spectre  dim, 
Whose  tones  are  like  the  wizard  voice  of  Time 
Heard  from  the  tomb  of  ages,  points  its  cold 
And  solemn  finger  to  the  beautiful 
And  holy  visions  that  have  pass'd  away, 
And  left  no  shadow  of  their  loveliness 
On  the  dead  waste  of  life.     That  spectre  lifts 
The  coffin-lid  of  Hope,  and  Joy,  and  Love, 
And,  bending  mournfully  above  the  pale, 
Sweet  forms  that  slumber  there,  scatters  dead  flowers 
O'er  what  has  pass'd  to  nothingness. 

The  year 
Has  gone,  and,  with  it,  many  a  glorious  throng 
Of  happy  dreams.     Its  mark  is  on  each  brow, 
Its  shadow  in  each  heart.     In  its  swift  course, 


194  CHOICE    READINGS. 

It  waved  its  sceptre  o'er  the  beautiful,  — 

And  they  are  not.     It  laid  its  pallid  hand 

Upon  the  strong  man,  —  and  the  haughty  form 

Is  fallen,  and  the  flashing  eye  is  dim. 

It  trod  the  hall  of  revelry,  where  throng'd 

The  bright  and  joyous,  —  and  the  tearful  wail 

Of  stricken  ones,  is  heard  where  erst  the  song 

And  reckless  shout  resounded.     It  pass'd  o'er 

The  battle-plain,  where  sword,  and  spear,  and  shield 

Flash'd  in  the  light  of  mid-day,  —  and  the  strength 

Of  serried  hosts  is  shiver'd,  and  the  grass, 

Green  from  the  soil  of  carnage,  waves  above 

The  crush'd  and  moldering  skeleton.     It  came, 

And  faded  like  a  wreath  of  mist  at  eve ; 

Yet,  ere  it  melted  in  the  viewless  air, 

It  heralded  its  millions  to  their  home 

In  the  dim  land  of  dreams. 

Remorseless  Time ! 
Fierce  spirit  of  the  glass  and  scythe  !  what  power 
Can  stay  him  in  his  silent  course,  or  melt 
His  iron  heart  to  pity?     On,  still  on. 
He  presses,  and  forever.     The  pi'oud  bird. 
The  condor  of  the  Andes,  that  can  soar 
Through  heaven's  unfathomable  depths,  or  brave 
The  fury  of  the  northern  Hurricane, 
And  bathe  his  plumage  in  the  thunder's  home, 
Furls  his  broad  wings  at  nightfall,  and  sinks  down 
To  rest  upon  his  mountain  crag :  but  Time 
Knows  not  the  weight  of  sleep  or  weariness, 
And  night's  deep  darkness  has  no  chain  to  bind 
His  rushing  pinions. 

Revolutions  sweep 
O'er  Earth,  like  troubled  visions  o'er  the  breast 
Of  dreaming  sorrow  ;  cities  rise  and  sink 
Like  bubbles  on  the  water  ;  fiery  isles 
Spring  blazing  from  the  Ocean,  and  go  back 
To  their  mysterious  caverns;  Mountains  rear 


DEVOTIONAL    INCITEMENTS.  195 

To  heaven  their  bald  and  blackeii'd  cliffs,  and  bow 
Their  tall  heads  to  the  plain  ;  new  Empires  rise, 
Gathering  the  strength  of  hoary  centuries, 
And  rush  down  like  the  Alpine  avalanche, 
Startling  the  nations  ;  and  the  veiy  stars, 
Yon  bright  and  burning  blazonry  of  God, 
Glitter  awhile  in  their  eternal  depths, 
And,  like  the  Pleiad,  loveliest  of  their  train, 
Shoot  from  their  glorious  spheres,  and  pass  away 
To  darkle  in  the  trackless  void  ;  — yet  Time, 
Time,  the  tomb-builder,  holds  his  fierce  career, 
Dark,  stern,  all-pitiless,  and  pauses  not 
Amid  the  mighty  wrecks  that  strew  his  path, 
To  sit  and  muse,  like  other  conquerors. 
Upon  the  fearful  ruin  he  has  wrought. 


DEVOTIONAL  INCITEMENTS. 

William  Wordsworth. 

Where  will  they  stop,  those  breathing  Powers. 

The  Spirits  of  the  new-born  flowers  ? 

They  wander  with  the  breeze,  they  wind 

Where'er  the  streams  a  passage  find  ; 

Up  from  their  native  ground  they  rise 

In  mute  aerial  harmonies  : 

From  humble  violet  —  modest  thyme  — 

Exhaled,  th'  essential  odours  climb. 

As  if  no  space  below  the  sky 

Their  subtle  flight  could  satisfy  : 

Heaven  will  not  tax  our  thoughts  with  pride 

If  like  ambition  be  their  guide. 

Roused  by  this  kindliest  of  May-showers, 
The  spirit-quickener  of  the  flowers. 
That  with  moist  virtue  softly  cleaves 
The  buds,  and  freshens  the  young  leaves, 
The  birds  pour  forth  their  souls  in  notes 


196  CHOICE     READINGS. 

Of  rapture  from  a  thousand  throats,  — 
Here  check'd  by  too  impetuous  liaste, 
While  there  the  music  runs  to  waste, 
With  bounty  more  and  more  enlarged, 
Till  the  whole  air  is  overcharged  : 
Give  ear,  O  Man  !  to  their  appeal. 
And  thirst  for  no  inferior  zeal, 
Thou,  who  canst  think,  as  well  as  feeL 

Mount  from  the  Earth  ;  aspire  !  aspire  ! 
So  pleads  the  town's  cathedral  quire, 
In  strains  that  from  their  solemn  height 
Sink,  to  attain  a  loftier  flight ; 
While  incense  from  the  altar  breathes 
Rich  fragrance  in  embodied  wreaths  ; 
Or,  flung  from  swinging  censer,  shrouds 
The  taper-lights,  and  curls  in  clouds 
Around  angelic  Forms,  the  still 
Creation  of  the  painter's  skill, 
That  on  the  service  wait  conceal' d 
One  moment,  and  the  next  reveal'd.  — 
Cast  ofr3'our  bonds,  awake,  arise, 
And  for  no  transient  ecstasies  ! 
What  else  can  mean  the  visual  plea 
Of  still  or  moving  imagery,  — 
The  iterated  summons  loud. 
Not  wasted  on  th'  attendant  crowd, 
Nor  wholly  lost  upon  the  throng 
Hurrying  the  bus^'  streets  along? 

Yet  evermore,  through  years  renew'd 
In  undisturbed  vicissitude 
Of  seasons  balancing  their  flight 
On  the  swift  wings  of  day  and  night, 
Kind  Nature  keeps  a  heavenly  door 
Wide  open  for  the  scatter'd  Poor. 
Where  flower-breathed  incense  to  the  skies 
Is  wafted  in  mute  harmonies  ; 
And  ground  fresh-cloven  by  the  plough 


THE    INSPIRATION    OF    THE    BIBLE.  197 

Is  fragrant  with  a  humbler  vow  ; 
Where  birds  and  brooks  from  leaf)'  dells 
Chime  forth  unwearied  canticles, 
And  A'apours  magnify  and  spread 
The  glorj'  of  the  Sun's  bright  head,  — 
Still  constant  in  her  worship,  still 
Conforming  to  th'  eternal  Will, 
Whether  men  sow  or  reap  the  fields, 
Divine  monition  Nature  yields. 
That  not  by  bread  alone  we  live, 
Or  what  a  hand  of  flesh  can  give ; 
That  every  da}'  should  leave  some  part 
Free  for  a  sabbath  of  the  heart : 
So  shall  the  seventh  be  truly  Idlest, 
From  morn  to  eve,  with  hallow'd  rest. 

THE  INSPIEATION  OF  THE  BIBLE. 

Edward  Winthrop. 

Such  is  the  intrinsic  excellence  of  Christianity  that 
it  is  adapted  to  the  wants  of  all,  and  it  provides  for  all, 
not  only  by  its  precepts  and  by  its  doctrines,  but  also 
by  its  evidence. 

The  poor  man  may  know  nothing  of  history,  or 
science,  or  philosophy ;  he  may  have  read  scarcely  any 
book  but  the  Bible ;  he  may  be  totally  iniable  to  van- 
quish the  skeptic  in  the  arena  of  })ublic  debate  ;  but  lie 
is,  nevertheless,  surrounded  by  a  panoply  which  the 
shafts  of  infidelity  can  never  pierce. 

You  may  go  to  the  home  of  the  poor  cottager,  whose 
heart  is  deeply  imbued  with  the  spirit  of  vital  Chris- 
tianity ,  you  may  see  him  gather  his  little  family  around 
him.  He  expounds  to  them  the  wholesome  doctrines 
and  principles  of  the  Bible,  and,  if  they  want  to  know 
the  evidence  upon  which  he  rests  his  faith  of  the  divine 


198  CHOICE    READINGS. 

origin  of  liis  religion,  he  can  tell  tliem  upon  reading  the 
book  which  teaches  Christianity  he  finds  not  only  a 
perfectly  true  description  of  his  own  natural  character, 
but  in  the  provisions  of  this  religion  a  perfect  adaptation 
to  all  his  needs. 

It  is  a  religion  by  which  to  live,  a  religion  by  which 
to  die  ;  a  religion  which  cheers  in  darkness,  relieves  in 
perplexity,  supports  in  adversity,  keeps  steadfast  in 
prosperity,  and  guides  the  inquirer  to  that  blessed  land 
where  "  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  the  weary 
are  at  rest." 

We  entreat  you,  therefore,  to  give  the  Bible  a  wel- 
come, a  cordial  reception ;  obey  its  precepts,  trust  its 
promises,  and  rely  implicitly  upon  that  Divine  Redeemer 
whose  religion  brings  glory  to  God  in  the  highest,  and 
on  Earth  peace  and  good- will  to  men. 

Thus  will  you  fulfill  the  noble  end  of  your  existence, 
and  the  great  God  of  the  Universe  will  be  your  father 
and  your  friend ;  and,  when  the  last  mighty  convulsion 
shall  shake  the  earth  and  the  sea  and  the  sky,  and  the 
fragments  of  a  thousand  barks,  richly  freighted  with 
intellect  and  learning,  are  scattered  on  the  shores  of 
error  and  delusion,  your  vessel  shall  in  safety  outride 
the  storm,  and  enter  in  triumph  the  haven  of  eternal 
rest. 


BEEAK,  BEEAK,  BEEAK. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 

Break,  break,  break. 

On  th}'  cold  gray  stones,  O  Sea! 
And  I  woukl  that  my  tongue  could  utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 


GOD.  199 

O,  well  for  the  fisherman's  bo}-, 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play ! 

O,  well  for  the  sailor-lad, 

That  he  sings  in  his  l)oat  on  the  bay ! 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 

To  their  haven  nnder  the  hill ; 
But,  O,  for  the  touch  of  a  vanish'd  hand, 

And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still ! 

Break,  break,  break, 

At  tlie  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  Sea  ! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 

GOD. 

Derzhavin.  ■ 

O  THOU  eternal  One,  whose  presence  bright 

All  space  doth  occupy,  all  motion  guide  ; 
Unchanged  through  time's  all-devastating  flight ! 

Thou  only  God,  —  there  is  no  God  beside  ! 
Being  above  all  beings  !  mighty  One, 

Whom  none  can  comprehend  and  none  explore ; 
Who  flll'st  existence  with  Thyself  alone. 

Embracing  all,  supporting,  ruling  o'er  ; 

Being  whom  we  call  God,  and  know  no  more ! 

In  its  sublime  research  philosoph}- 

May  measure  out  the  ocean  deep,  may  count 
The  sands  or  the  Sun's  rays  ;  but,  God  !  for  Thee 

There  is  no  weight  nor  measure  ;  none  can  mount 
Up  to  Thy  mysteries  ;  Reason's  brightest  spark, 

Though  kindled  by  Thy  light,  in  vain  would  try 
To  trace  Thy  counsels,  infinite  and  dark ; 

And  thought  is  lost  ere  thought  can  soar  so  high, 

Even  like  past  moments  in  eternity. 


200  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Thou  from  primeval  nothingness  didst  call 
First  chaos,  then  existence  ;  Lord,  on  Thee 

Eternit}'  hath  its  foundation  ;  all 

Sprung  forth  from  Thee, — of  light,  joy,  harmony. 

Sole  origin,  —  all  life,  all  beaut}-  Thine  ; 
Thy  word  created  all,  and  doth  create  ; 

Thy  splendour  fills  all  space  with  raj^s  divine ; 

Thou  art  and  wert  and  shalt  be  !     Glorious  !     Great  1 
Light-giving,  life-sustaining  Potentate  ! 

Thy  chains  th'  unmeasured  universe  surround,  — 

Upheld  by  Thee,  b}"  Thee  inspired  with  breath ! 
Thou  the  beginning  with  the  end  hast  bound, 

And  beautifully  mingled  life  and  death ! 
As  sparks  mount  upward  from  the  fiery  blaze. 

So  suns  are  born,  so  worlds  spring  forth  from  Thee  ; 
And,  as  the  spangles  in  the  sunnj'  raAs 

vShine  round  the  silver  snow,  the  pageantry 
Of  heaven's  bright  army  glitters  in  Thy  praise. 

A  million  torches,  lighted  by  Thy  hand. 

Wander  unwearied  through  the  blue  abyss  ; 
They  own  Thy  power,  accomplish  Thy  command, 

All  gay  with  life,  all  eloquent  with  bliss. 
"What  shall  we  call  them  ?     Piles  of  ciTstal  light,  — 

A  glorious  company  of  golden  streams,  — 
Lamps  of  celestial  ether  burning  bright,  — 

Suns  lighting  S3'stems  with  their  joyous  beams? 
But  Thou  to  these  art  as  the  noon  to  night. 

Yes,  as  a  drop  of  water  in  the  sea, 

All  this  magnificence  in  Thee  is  lost : 
What  are  ten  thousand  worlds  compared  to  Thee? 

And  what  am  I  then  ?     Heaven's  unnumber'd  host, 
Though  multiplied  by  myriads,  and  aiTa^'d 

In  all  the  glory  of  sublimest  thought, 
Is  but  an  atom  in  the  balance,  weigh'd 


GOD.  201 

Against  Th}-  greatness,  —  is  a  cipher  brought 
Against  infinity  !     What  am  I  then  ?     Nought ! 

Nought !  but  the  effluence  of  Tliy  light  divine, 

Pervading  worlds,  hath  reach'd  my  bosom  too; 
Yes,  in  m}-  spirit  doth  Thy  spirit  shine 

As  shines  the  sunbeam  in  a  drop  of  dew. 
Nought !  but  I  live,  and  on  hope's  pinions  fly 

Eager  toward  Thy  presence  ;  for  in  Thee 
I  live  and  breathe  and  dwell ;  aspiring  high, 

Even  to  the  throne  of  Thy  divinity. 

I  am,  O  God  !  and  surel}'  Thou  must  be. 

Thou  art  —  directing,  guiding  all  —  Thou  art ! 

Direct  my  understanding  then  to  Thee  ; 
Control  my  spirit,  guide  my  wandering  heart ; 

Though  but  an  atom  'midst  immensity. 
Still  I  am  something,  fashion'd  by  Thy  hand : 

I  hold  a  middle  rank  'twixt  Heaven  and  Earth, 
On  the  last  verge  of  mortal  being  stand, 

Close  to  the  realms  where  angels  have  their  birth, 
Just  on  the  boundaries  of  the  spirit-land ! 

The  chain  of  being  is  complete  in  me, 

In  me  is  matter's  last  gradation  lost. 
And  the  next  step  is  spirit,  —  Deity  ! 

I  can  command  the  lightning,  and  am  dust ! 
A  monarch  and  a  slave,  a  worm,  a  god ! 

Whence  came  I  here,  and  how?  so  marvellously 
Constructed  and  conceived  ?  unknown  !  this  clod 

Lives  surely  through  some  higher  energy ; 

For  from  itself  alone  it  could  not  be  ! 

Creator,  yes  :  Thy  wisdom  and  thy  word 
Created  me  ;  Thou  source  of  life  and  good  : 

Thou  spirit  of  my  spirit,  and  my  Lord, 

Thy  light,  Thy  love,  in  their  bright  plenitude 

Fill'd  me  with  an  immortal  soul,  to  spring 


202  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Over  the  abjss  of  death,  and  bade  it  wear 
The  garments  of  eternal  day,  and  wing 

Its  heavenly  flight  beyond  this  little  sphere, 
Even  to  its  source  —  to  Thee  —  its  Author  there. 

O  thoughts  ineffable  !     O  visions  blest ! 

Though  worthless  our  conceptions  all  of  Thee, 
Yet  shall  Thy  shadow'd  image  fill  our  breast, 

And  waft  its  homage  to  Thy  Deity. 
God  !  thus  alone  my  lowly  thoughts  can  soar, 

Thus  seek  Th}-  presence,  —  Being  wise  and  good  ! 
'Midst  Thy  vast  works  admire,  obej",  adore; 

And  when  the  tongue  is  eloquent  no  more 

The  soul  shall  speak  in  tears  of  gratitude. 


GOD'S  PIEST  TEMPLES. 

W.  C.  Bryant. 

The  groves  were  God's  first  temples.     Ere  man  learn'd 

To  hew  the  shaft,  and  lay  the  architrave, 

And  spread  the  roof  above  them,  ere  he  framed 

The  lofty  vault,  to  gather  and  roll  back 

The  sound  of  anthems,  in  the  darkling  wood, 

Amidst  the  cool  and  silence,  he  knelt  down 

And  offer'd  to  the  Mightiest  solemn  thanks 

And  supplication.     For  his  simple  heart 

Might  not  resist  the  sacred  influences 

That,  from  the  stilly  twilight  of  the  place. 

And  from  the  gray  old  trunks,  that,  high  in  heaven. 

Mingled  their  mossy  boughs,  and  from  the  sound 

Of  the  invisible  breath,  that  sway'd  at  once 

All  their  green  tops,  stole  over  him,  and  bow'd 

His  spirit  with  the  thought  of  boundless  Power 

And  inaccessible  Majesty.     Ah,  why 

Should  we,  in  the  world's  riper  years,  neglect 

God's  ancient  sanctuaries,  and  adore 


god's  first  temples.  203 

Onl}'  among  the  crowd,  and  under  roofs 

That  our  frail  hands  have  raised?     Let  me,  at  least, 

Here,  in  the  shadow  of  the  ancient  wood, 

Offer  one  hymn  ;  tlirice  happy,  if  it  find 

Acceptance  in  His  ear. 

Father,  thy  hand 
Hath  reared  these  venerable  columns  :  Thou 
Didst  weave  this  verdant  roof.     Thou  didst  look  down 
Upon  the  naked  earth,  and  forthwith  rose 
All  these  fair  ranks  of  trees.     They  in  Thy  sun 
Budded,  and  shook  their  green  leaves  in  Th}-  breeze. 
And  shot  toward  heaven.     The  century-living  crow. 
Whose  birth  was  in  their  tops,  grew  old  and  died 
Among  their  branches,  till  at  last  they  stood, 
As  now  they  stand,  massy  and  tall  and  dark, 
Fit  shrine  for  humble  worshipper  to  hold 
Communion  with  his  Maker. 

Here  ai'e  seen 
No  traces  of  man's  pomp  or  pride  ;  no  silks 
Rustle,  no  jewels  shine,  nor  envious  eyes 
Encounter  ;  no  fantastic  carvings  show 
The  boast  of  our  vain  race  to  change  the  form 
Of  Thy  fair  works.     But  Thou  art  here  ;  Thou  (iU'st 
The  solitude.     Tliov.  art  in  the  soft  winds 
That  run  along  the  summits  of  these  trees 
In  music  ;  Thou  art  in  the  cooler  breath. 
That,  from  the  inmost  darkness  of  the  place. 
Comes,  scarcely  felt ;  the  barky  trunks,  the  ground, 
The  fresh,  moist  ground,  are  all  instinct  with  Thee. 

Here  is  continual  worship  ;  Nature  here. 
In  the  tranquillity  that  Thou  dost  love, 
Enjoys  Thy  presence.     Noiselessly  around, 
From  perch  to  perch  the  solitary  bird 
Passes ;  and  yon  clear  spring,  that,  'midst  its  herbs. 
Wells  softly  forth,  and  visits  the  strong  roots 
Of  half  the  mighty  forest,  tells  no  tale 
Of  all  the  good  it  does. 


204  CHOICE   READINGS. 

Thou  hast  not  left 
Thyself  without  a  witness,  in  these  shades, 
Of  Th}'  perfections.     Grandeur,  strength  and  grace 
Are  here  to  speak  of  Thee.     This  mighty  oak,  — 
By  whose  immovable  stem  I  stand,  and  seem 
Almost  annihilated,  —  not  a  prince. 
In  all  the  proud  old  world  beyond  the  deep, 
Ere  wore  his  crown  as  loftily  as  he 
Wears  the  green  coi'oual  of  leaves  with  which 
Th}'  hand  has  graced  him.     Nestled  at  his  root 
Is  beaut}',  such  as  blooms  not  in  the  glare 
Of  the  broad  Sun.     That  delicate  forest  flower, 
With  scented  breath,  and  looks  so  like  a  smile, 
Seems,  as  it  issues  from  the  shapeless  mould, 
An  emanation  of  th'  indwelling  life, 
A  visible  token  of  the  upholding  love, 
That  are  the  soul  of  this  wide  Universe. 

My  heart  is  awed  within  me  when  I  think 
Of  the  great  miracle  that  still  goes  on. 
In  silence,  round  me,  —  the  perpetual  work 
Of  Thy  creation,  finish' d,  yet  renew'd 
Forever.     Written  on  Thy  works  I  read 
The  lesson  of  Thy  own  eternity. 
Lo  !  all  grow  old  and  die  ;  but  see,  again, 
How,  on  the  faltering  footsteps  of  decay, 
Youth  presses  —  ever  gay  and  beautiful  youth  - 
In  all  its  beautiful  forms.     These  lofty  trees 
Wave  not  less  proudly  that  their  ancestors 
Moulder  beneath  them. 

O,  there  is  not  lost 
One  of  Earth's  charms  :  upon  her  bosom  yet. 
After  the  flight  of  untold  centuries, 
The  freshness  of  her  far  beginning  lies, 
And  yet  shall  lie.      Life  mocks  the  idle  hate 
Of  his  arch  enemy  Death  ;  yea,  seats  himself 
Upon  the  sepulchre,  and  blooms  and  smiles, 
And  of  the  triumphs  of  his  ghastl}'  foe 


GOD  S    FIRST   TEMPLES.  205 

Makes  his  own  nourishment.     For  he  came  forth 
From  Thine  own  bosom,  and  shall  have  no  end. 
There  have  been  holy  men  who  hid  themselves 
Deep  in  the  woody  wilderness,  and  gave 
Their  lives  to  tliought  and  prayer,  till  they  outlived 
The  generation  born  with  them,  nor  seem'd 
Less  ag6d  than  the  hoary  trees  and  rocks 
Around  them ;  and  there  have  been  holy  men 
Who  deem'd  it  were  not  well  to  pass  life  thus. 
But  let  me  often  to  these  solitudes 
Retire,  and,  in  Thy  presence,  re-assure 
M}'  feeble  virtue.     Here,  its  enemies, 
The  passions,  at  Thy  plainer  footsteps,  shrink, 
And  tremble,  and  are  still. 

O  God,  wlieu  Thou 
Dost  scare  the  world  with  tempests,  set  on  fire 
The  heavens  with  falling  thunderbolts,  or  fill. 
With  all  the  waters  of  the  firmament. 
The  swift,  dark  whirlwind,  that  uproots  the  woods 
And  drowns  the  villages  ;  when,  at  Tii}'  call, 
Uprises  the  great  deep,  and  throws  himself 
Upon  the  continent,  and  overwhelms 
Its  cities  ;  who  forgets  not,  at  the  sight 
Of  these  tremendous  tokens  of  Tliy  power, 
His  pride,  and  lays  his  strifes  and  follies  by ! 
O,  from  these  sterner  aspects  of  Thy  face 
Spare  me  and  mine  ;  nor  let  us  need  the  wrath 
Of  the  mad,  unchain'd  elements,  to  teach 
Who  rules  them.     Be  it  ours  to  meditate. 
In  these  calm  shades.  Thy  milder  majesty. 
And  to  the  beautiful  order  of  Tliy  works 
Learn  to  conform  the  order  of  our  lives. 


206  CHOICK    RKADINGS. 

THE  PEIMEOSE  OF  THE  EOOK. 

William   Wordsworth. 

A  Rock  there  is  whose  homely  front 
The  passing  traveller  slights  ; 

Yet  there  the  glow-worms  hang  their  lamps, 
Like  stars,  at  various  heights  ; 

And  one  co}'  Primrose  to  that  Rock 
The  vernal  breeze  invites. 

What  hideous  warfare  hath  been  raged, 
What  kingdoms  overthrown, 

Since  fust  I  spied  that  Primrose-tuft 
And  mark'd  it  for  my  own  ; 

A  lasting  link  in  Nature's  chain 
From  highest  Heaven  let  down  ! 

The  flowers,  still  faithful  to  the  stems, 

Their  fellowship  renew  ; 
The  stems  are  faithful  to  the  root, 

That  worketh  out  of  view  ; 
And  to  the  rock  the  root  adheres, 

In  every  fibre  true. 

Close  clings  to  earth  the  living  rock, 
Though  threatening  still  to  fall ; 

The  Earth  is  constant  in  her  sphere ; 
And  God  upholds  them  all : 

So  blooms  this  lonely  Plant,  nor  dreads 
Her  annual  funei-al. 


Here  closed  the  meditative  strain  ; 

But  air  breathed  soft  that  day. 
The  hoary  mountain-heights  were  cheer'd, 

The  sunny  vale  look'd  ga}' ; 
And  to  the  Primrose  of  the  Rock 

I  gave  this  afti-r-luy. 


THE  PRIMROSE  OF  THE  ROCK.  207 

I  sang,  —  Let  myriads  of  bright  flowers, 

Like  thee,  in  field  and  grove 
Revive  unenvied  ;  —  mightier  far 

Tlian  tremblings,  that  reprove 
Our  vernal  tendencies  to  hope. 

Is  God's  redeeming  love  ;  — 

That  love  which  changed  —  for  wan  disease, 

For  sorrow  that  had  bent 
O'er  hopeless  dust,  for  wither'd  age  — 

Their  moral  element, 
And  turn'd  the  thistles  of  a  curse 

To  types  beneficent. 

Sin-blighted  though  we  are,  we  too, 

The  reasoning  Sons  of  Men, 
From  one  oblivious  winter  call'd 

Shall  rise,  and  breathe  again  ; 
And  in  eternal  summer  lose 

Our  threescore  years  and  ten. 

To  humbleness  of  heart  descends 

This  prescience  from  on  high, 
The  faith  that  elevates  the  just, 

Before  and  when  they  die  ; 
And  makes  each  soul  a  separate  beaven- 

A  court  for  Deity. 


208  CUOICK    UKADIN(JS. 


V. 

GRAND,    J'.OLI),   SIIIJLIMK. 


APOSTKOPHE  TO   THE  OCEAN. 

(,(>Rf>    fiVRON. 

Thkkk  Im  a  |)l('asiii(!  in  Mio  pnilih-KM  vvoodn, 
TJicn;  \H  a  i'a|)tiii('.  on  Mic,  lonely  kIioic, 
'I'hcrc,  \h  society,  where  none  ind  ikIck, 
P»y  tii«!  (le<!|)  Hca,  and  rnuKi(;  in  its  roar: 
I  love  not  man  the  Icks,  hut.  Nature  more, 
l'"rom  tJicse  oiu'  inrerviews,  in  vvliieh   I  .st.<"ul 
From  all  I  mny  be,  or  tiave  been  bc^forc!. 
To  rnin«<l(!  with  the  univers<!,  and  (eel 
What  J  can  w.'c.r  expresH,  yet  cannol,  (dl  coiKical. 

Roll  on,  thon  deep  find  d)Ml<  blue  Occnu,  roll  ! 
'I'en  thousand  [leets  sweep  over  Uwv.  in  vnin  ; 
Man  inarks  the  (larth  with  ruin,  --  his  (-ontrol 
Stops  with  the  fthore. :    upon  the  watery  |)lfiiri. 
The  wrec,l<s  are  all  thy  (U'V<\,  nor  doth  remain 
A  sliJidow  of  rriJin's  ravJif^e,  save  his  (»wn, 
When  for  a  moinent,  like  a  dr<»p  of  rain, 
Ne  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bid>biin^  ^rr»an, 
Witli(>Mt  )i.  j<ravr',  unknell'd,  une.(>(Iin*d,  nnd  (Miknowri 

The  (irmainents,  which  thunderstrike  the  walls 
()f  rof^k-bnilt  cities,  biddini;  tuitions  r|iiakc, 
And  monarchs  tremble  in  tluTir  (rapitnis  ; 
Th(!  (;ak  leviathans,  wli(»s(!  hnjjje  ribs  mako 
Tli<!lr  (ilay  creat,or  the,  vain  tith;  take 


AroSTKOrilK    TO    TUK    OOKAN.  209 

Of  lord  of  thoo,  and  arbitor  of  war  ; 
Those  arc  thy  toys,  and,  as  tho  snowy  tiako. 
They  melt  into  thy  yeast  of  waves,  whieh  mar 
Alike  th'  Arnuida's  pride  or  spoils  of  Trafalijar. 

Thy  shores  are  empires,  changed  in  all  save  thee  : 
Assyria,  (Greece,  Home,  Carthage,  ^  what  are  they? 
Thy  waters  wasted  them  while  they  were  free. 
And  many  a  tyrant  since  ;  their  shoivs  obey 
The  stranger,  slave,  or  savage  ;  their  decay 
Has  dried  up  reahns  to  deserts  :  not  so  thou  ; 
Unchangeable,  save  to  thy  wild  waves'  play. 
Time  writes  no  wrinkles  on  thine  a/ure  brow  ; 
Such  as  creation's  dawn  beheld,  thou  rollest  now. 

Thou  glorious  mirror,  wlier*-  tlT  Almigiity's  ft>rm 
Glasses  itself  in  tempests  ;   in  all  time. 
Calm  or  convulsed,  — in  bree/e,  or  gale,  or  storm. 
Icing  the  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  clime 
Dark  hi>aving  ;  —  boundless.  eniUess,  and  sublime,— 
The  image  of  Kternity,  —  the  throne 
C)f  the  lnvisil)le  ;  even  from  out  thy  sliuie 
The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  made  ;  each  7.«M\e 
Obeys  tliee  :   thou  go'st  forth,  dread,  fatliomless.  alone. 

And  I  liave  loved  thee,  Oceai\ !  antl  my  Jt>y 
Of  youthful  siHU-ts  was  on  thy  breast  to  be 
Borne,  like  thy  bubbles,  onwanl :   from  a  boy 
I  wanton'd  with  thy  breakiMs.  — they  to  me 
Were  a  delight;  and,  if  the  freslu>ning  sea 
Made  them  a  terror,  'twas  a  pleasing  fear  ; 
For  I  was.  as  it  were,  a  child  of  tlu'c, 
And  trusted  to  thy  billows  f;ir  and  near, 
Aud  laid  mv  hand  \\[>ou  thy  mane.       as  I  do  lieiw 


210  CHOICK    READINGS. 

HYMN   TO   THE  NIGHT. 

H.  W.  Longfellow. 

I  HEARD  the  trailing  garments  of  the  Night 
Sweep  through  her  marble  halls  ! 

I  saw  her  sable  skirts  all  fringed  with  light 
From  the  celestial  walls  ! 

I  felt  her  presence,  by  its  spell  of  might, 

Stoop  o'er  me  from  above  ; 
The  calm,  majestic  presence  of  the  Night, 

As  of  the  one  I  love. 

I  heard  the  sounds  of  sorrow  and  delight, 

The  manifold,  soft  chimes. 
That  fill  the  haunted  chambers  of  the  Night, 

Like  some  old  poet's  rhymes. 

From  the  cool  cisterns  of  the  midnight  air 

My  spirit  drank  repose  ; 
The  fountain  of  perpetual  peace  flows  there,  — 

From  those  deep  cisterns  flows. 

O  holy  Night !   from  thee  I  learn  to  bear 

What  man  has  borne  before  ! 
Thou  lay'st  thy  finger  on  the  lips  of  Care, 

And  they  complain  no  more. 

Peace  !  Peace  !  Orestes-like  I  breathe  this  prayer ! 

Descend  with  broad-winged  flight. 
The  welcome,  the  thrice-pray'd  for,  the  most  fair, 

The  best-beloved  Night ! 

A  VISION  OF  MIST-SPLENDOURS. 

William  Wordsworth. 

A  SINGLE  step,  that  freed  me  from  the  skirts 
Of  the  blind  vapour,  open'd  to  my  view 


A    VISION    OF    MIST-SPLENDOURS.  211 

Glory  beyond  all  glory  ever  seen 

By  waking  sense  or  b}-  the  dreaming  soul ! 

Th'  appearance,  instantaneously  disclosed, 

"Was  of  a  mighty  citj",  —  boldly  say 

A  wilderness  of  building,  sinking  far 

And  self-withdrawn  into  a  boundless  depth. 

Far  sinking  into  splendour,  —  without  end  ! 

Fabric  it  seem'd  of  diamond  and  of  gold, 

With  alabaster  domes,  and  silver  spires, 

And  blazing  terrace  upon  terrace,  high 

Uplifted  ;  here,  serene  pavilions  bright, 

In  avenues  disposed  ;  there,  towers  begirt 

"With  battlements  that  on  their  restless  fronts 

Bore  stars,  —  illumination  of  all  gems  ! 

By  earthly  nature  had  th'  effect  been  wrought 

Upon  the  dark  materials  of  the  storm 

Now  pacified ;  on  them,  and  on  the  coves 

And  mountain-steeps  and  summits,  whereunto 

The  vapours  had  receded,  taking  there 

Their  station  under  a  cerulean  sky. 

O,  'twas  an  unimaginable  sight! 

Clouds,  mists,  streams,  watery  rocks  and  emerald  turf, 

Clouds  of  all  tincture,  rocks  and  sapphire  sk}-. 

Confused,  commingled,  mutualh-  inflamed, 

Molten  together,  and  composing  thus, 

Each  lost  in  each,  that  marvellous  array 

Of  temple,  palace,  citadel,  and  huge 

Fantastic  pomp  of  structure  without  name, 

In  fleecy  folds  voluminous,  enwrapp'd. 

Eight  in  the  midst,  where  interspace  appeared 

Of  open  court,  an  object  like  a  thi'one 

Under  a  shining  canopy  of  state 

Stood  fix'd  ;  and  fix'd  resemblances  were  seen 

To  implements  of  ordinary  use. 

But  vast  in  size,  in  substance  glorified  ; 

Such  as  by  Hebrew  Prophets  were  beheld 

In  vision,  —  forms  uncouth  of  mightiest  power 


212  CHOICE    READINGS. 

For  admiration  and  mysterious  awe. 
This  little  Vale,  a  dwelling-place  of  Man, 
Lay  low  beneath  my  feet  ;  'twas  visible,  — 
I  saw  not,  but  I  felt  that  it  was  there. 
That  which  I  saw  was  the  reveal'd  abode 
Of  Spirits  in  beatitude. 

HYMN  TO   MONT  BLANC. 

S.  T.  Coleridge. 

Hast  thou  a  charm  to  sta^-  the  morning-star 

In  his  steep  course  ?  —  so  long  he  seems  to  pause 

On  thy  bald  awful  head,  O  sovereign  Blanc  ! 

The  Arv^  and  Arveiron  at  thy  base 

Rave  ceaselessly  ;  but  thou,  most  awful  Form, 

Risest  from  forth  th}-  silent  sea  of  pines, 

How  silently !     Around  thee  and  above 

Deep  is  the  air  and  dark,  substantial,  black, 

An  ebon  mass  :  methinks  thou  jjiercest  it. 

As  with  a  wedge  !     But,  when  I  look  again, 

It  is  thine  own  calm  home,  thy  crystal  shrine, 

Thy  habitation  from  eternit}^ 

0  dread  and  silent  Mount !  I  gazed  upon  thee. 
Till  thou,  still  present  to  the  bodily  sense, 

Didst  vanish  from  my  thought :  entranced  in  prayer, 

1  worshipp'd  the  Invisible  alone. 

Yet.  like  some  sweet  beguiling  melody. 
So  sweet,  we  know  not  we  are  listening  to  it, 
Thou,  the  meanwhile,  wast  blending  with  my  thought 
Yea,  with  my  life  and  life's  own  secret  joy  ; 
Till  the  dilating  Soul  —  enrapt,  transfused, 
Into  the  mighty  Vision  passing — there. 
As  in  her  natural  form,  swell'd  vast  to  Heaven  ! 

Awake,  my  soul !  not  only  passive  praise 
Thou  owest ;  not  alone  these  swelling  tears, 


HYMN    TO    MONT    BLANC.  213 

Mute  thanks,  and  secret  ecstasy.     Awake, 
Voice  of  sweet  song  !     Awake,  my  heart,  awake  ! 
Green  vales  and  icy  cliffs,  all  join  my  Hynni ! 

Thou  first  and  chief,  sole  sovereign  of  the  Vale ! 
O,  struggling  with  the  darkness  all  the  night, 
And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of  stars, 
Or  when  they  climb  the  sky  or  when  the}-  sink ; 
Companion  of  the  morning-star  at  dawn, 
Thyself  Earth's  rosy  star,  and  of  the  dawn 
Co-herald  ;  wake,  0,  wake,  and  utter  praise  ! 
Who  sank  thy  sunless  pillars  deep  in  earth? 
Who  fill'd  thy  countenance  with  rosy  light? 
Who  made  thee  parent  of  perpetual  streams  ? 

And  you,  ye  five  wild  torrents  fiercely  glad  ! 
Who  call'd  you  forth  from  night  and  utter  death, 
From  dark  and  icy  caverns  call'd  you  forth, 
Down  those  precipitous,  black,  jagged  rocks. 
For  ever  shattei-'d  and  the  same  for  ever? 
Who  gave  you  your  invulnerable  life. 
Your  strength,  your  speed,  your  fury,  and  your  joy, 
Unceasing  thunder  and  eternal  foam? 
And  who  commanded,  (and  the  silence  came,) 
Here  let  the  billows  stiffen,  and  have  rest? 

Ye  ice-falls  !  ye  that  from  the  mountain's  brow 
Adown  enormous  ravines  slope  amain, — 
Torrents,  methinks,  that  heard  a  mighty  Voice, 
And  stopp'd  at  once  amid  their  maddest  plunge ! 
Motionless  torrents  !  silent  cataracts  ! 
Who  made  you  glorious  as  the  gates  of  Heaven 
Beneath  the  keen  full  Moon  ?    Who  bade  the  Sun 
Clothe  you  with  rainbows?     Who,  with  living  flowers 
Of  loveliest  blue,  spread  garlands  at  your  feet?  — 
God !  let  the  torrents,  like  a  shout  of  nations. 
Answer  !  and  let  the  ice-plains  echo,  God  ! 
God  !  sing  ye  meadow-streams  with  gladsome  voice ! 


214  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Ye  pine-groves,  with  your  soft  and  soul-like  sounds ! 
And  they  too  have  a  voice,  yon  piles  of  snow, 
And  in  their  perilous  fall  shall  thunder,  God ! 

Ye  living  flowers  that  skirt  th'  eternal  frost ; 
Ye  wild  goats  sporting  round  the  eagle's  nest ; 
Ye  eagles,  play-mates  of  the  mountain-storm ; 
Ye  lightnings,  the  dread  arrows  of  the  clouds  ; 
Ye  signs  and  wonders  of  the  element,  — 
Utter  forth  God,  and  fill  the  hills  with  praise ! 

Thou  too,  hoar  Mount,  with  thy  skj^-pointing  peaks. 
Oft  from  whose  feet  the  avalanche,  unheard, 
Shoots  downward,  glittering  through  the  pure  serene 
Into  the  depth  of  clouds,  that  veil  thy  breast,  — 
Thou  too  again,  stupendous  Mountain  !  thou 
That,  as  I  raise  my  head,  awhile  bow'd  low 
In  adoration,  upward  from  thy  base 
Slow  travelling  with  dim  eyes  suffused  with  tears, 
Solemnly  seemest,  like  a  vapour3-  cloud, 
To  rise  before  me,  —  rise,  O,  ever  rise, 
Rise  like  a  cloud  of  incense,  from  the  Earth ! 
Thou  kingly  Spirit  throned  among  the  hills, 
Thou  dread  ambassador  from  Earth  to  Heaven, 
Great  hierarch  !  tell  thou  the  silent  Sky, 
'    And  tell  the  stars,  and  tell  yon  rising  Sun, 
Earth,  with  her  thousand  voices,  praises  God. 

MARCO  BOZZAEIS. 

FiTZ  Gkeene  Halleck. 

At  midnight,  in  his  guarded  tent, 
The  Turk  was  dreaming  of  the  hour 

When  Greece,  her  knee  in  suppliance  bent, 
Should  tremble  at  his  power ; 

In  dreams,  through  camp  and  court  he  bore 

The  trophies  of  a  conqueror ; 


MARCO    BOZZARIS.  215 

In  dreams,  his  song  of  triuuiph  heard  ; 
Then  wore  his  monarch's  signet  rino- ; 
Then  press'd  that  monarch's  throne  —  a  king ; 
As  wild  his  thoughts,  and  gay  of  wing, 

As  Eden's  garden  bird. 

At  midnight,  in  the  forest  shades, 

Bozzaris  ranged  his  Suliote  band, 
True  as  the  steel  of  their  tried  blades, 

Heroes  in  heart  and  hand. 
There  had  the  Persian's  thousands  stood, 
There  had  the  glad  earth  drunk  their  blood, 

On  old  Platsea's  day  ; 
And  now  there  breathed  that  haunted  air 
The  sons  of  sires  who  conquer'd  there, 
With  arm  to  strike,  and  soul  to  dare, 

As  quick,  as  far,  as  they. 

An  hour  pass'd  on  :  the  Turk  awoke : 

That  bright  dream  was  his  last. 
He  woke  to  hear  his  sentries  shriek, 
"  To  arms  !  they  come  !  the  Greek  !  the  Greek  !' 
He  woke,  to  die  'midst  flame  and  smoke, 
And  shout,  and  groan,  and  sabre-stroke, 

And  death-shots  falling  thick  and  fast 
As  lightnings  from  the  mountain  cloud. 
And  heard,  with  voice  as  trumpet  loud, 

Bozzaris  cheer  his  band  : 
"  Strike  !  —  till  the  last  arm'd  foe  expires  ; 
Strike  !  — for  your  altars  and  your  fires  ; 
Strike  !  —  for  the  green  graves  of  your  sires ; 

God,  and  your  native  land  !  " 

They  fought  like  brave  men,  long  and  well; 

They  piled  that  ground  with  Moslem  slain : 
They  conquer'd  ;  —  but  Bozzaris  fell, 

Bleeding  at  ever^-  vein. 


216  CHOICE    READINGS. 

His  few  surviving  comrades  saw 

His  smile  when  rang  tlieir  loud  hurrah, 

And  the  red  field  was  won  ; 
Then  saw  in  death  his  eyelids  close, 
Calmly  as  to  a  night's  repose,  — 

Like  flowers  at  set  of  Sun. 

Come  to  the  bridal  chamber,  Death ! 

Come  to  the  mother's,  when  she  feels, 
For  the  first  time,  her  first-born's  breath ; 

Come  when  the  blessed  seals 
That  close  the  pestilence  are  broke, 
And  crowded  cities  wail  its  stroke  ; 
Come  in  consumption's  ghastly  form, 
The  earthquake  shock,  the  ocean  storm ; 
Come  when  the  heart  beats  high  and  warm 

With  banquet  song  and  dance  and  wine  ; 
And  thou  art  terrible  :  —  the  tear. 
The  groan,  the  knell,  the  pall,  the  bier, 
And  all  we  know,  or  dream,  or  fear, 

Of  agony,  are  thine. 

But  to  the  hero,  when  his  sword 

Has  won  the  battle  for  the  free, 
Thy  voice  sounds  like  a  prophet's  word, 
And  in  its  hollow  tones  are  heard 

The  thanks  of  millions  yet  to  be. 
Come  when  his  task  of  fame  is  wrought  ; 
Come,  with  her  laurel-leaf,  blood-bought ; 

Come  in  her  crowning  hour,  —  and  then 
Thy  sunken  eye's  unearthly  light, 
To  him  is  welcome  as  the  sight 

Of  sky  and  stars  to  prison'd  men  ; 
Thy  grasp  is  welcome  as  the  hand 
Of  brother  in  a  foreign  land  ; 
Thy  summons  welcome  as  the  cry 
That  told  the  Indian  isles  were  nigh 


MARCO    BOZZARIS. 


21' 


To  the  world-seeking  Genoese, 
When  the  land-wind,  from  woods  of  palm.. 
And  orange-groves,  and  fields  of  balm. 

Blew  o'er  the  Haytien  seas. 

Bozzaris  !    with  the  storied  brave 

Greece  nurtured  in  her  glory's  time. 
Rest  thee  :  there  is  no  prouder  grave, 

Even  in  her  own  proud  clime. 
She  wore  no  funeral  weeds  for  thee. 

Nor  bade  the  dark  hearse  wave  its  plume, 
Like  torn  branch  from  death's  leafless  tree. 
In  sorrow's  pomp  and  pageantry. 

The  heartless  luxury  of  the  tomb  ; 
But  she  remembers  thee  as  one 
Long  loved,  and  for  a  season  gone  ; 
Fortiiee  her  poet's  lyre  is  wreathed. 
Her  marble  wrought,  her  music  breathed ; 
For  thee  she  rings  the  birthday  bells  ; 
Of  thee  her  babes'  first  lisping  tells  ; 
For  thine  her  evening  prayer  is  said, 
At  palace  couch  and  cottage  bed : 
Her  soldier,  closing  with  the  foe, 
Gives  for  thy  sake  a  deadlier  blow  ; 
His  plighted  maiden,  when  slie  fears 
For  him,  the  joy  of  her  young  years, 
Thinks  of  thv  fate,  and  checks  her  tears: 

And  she,  the  mother  of  tliy  boys. 
Though  in  her  eye  aud  faded  cheek 
Is  read  the  grief  she  will  not  speak. 

The  memory  of  her  buried  joys,  — 
And  even  she  who  gave  thee  birth 
Will,  by  their  pilgrim-circled  hearth, 
Talk  of  thy  doom  without  a  sigh  ; 
For  thou  art  Freedom's  now,  and  Fame's, 
One  of  the  few,  th'  immortal  names 
That  were  not  born  to  die. 


218  CHOICE  READINGS. 

THE  LAUNCHING  OP  THE  SHIP. 

H.  W.  Longfellow. 

"Build  me  straight,  O  worth}-  Master! 

Staunch  and  strong,  a  goodly  vessel. 
That  shall  laugh  at  all  disaster, 

And  with  wave  and  whirlwind  wrestle  I  " 

The  merchant's  word, 

Delighted,  the  Master  heard  ; 

For  his  heart  was  in  his  work,  and  the  heart 

Giveth  grace  unto  every  art : 

And,  with  a  voice  that  was  full  of  glee, 

He  auswer'd,  "•  Ere  long  we  will  launch 

A  vessel  as  goodly  and  strong  and  staunch 

As  ever  weather'd  a  wintry  sea  !  " 

All  is  finish'd  !  and  at  length 

Has  come  the  bridal  day 

Of  beauty  and  of  strength  : 

To-day  the  vessel  shall  be  launch'd ! 

With  fleecy  clouds  the  sky  is  blanch'd; 

And  o'er  the  bay. 

Slowly,  in  all  his  splendours  dight. 

The  great  Sun  rises  to  behold  the  sight. 

The  ocean  old. 

Centuries  old, 

Strong  as  youth,  as  uncontroll'd. 

Paces  restless  to  and  fro. 

Up  and  down  the  sands  of  gold. 

His  beating  heart  is  not  at  rest ; 

And  far  and  wide, 

With  ceaseless  flow, 

His  beard  of  snow 

Heaves  with  the  heaving  of  his  breast : 

He  waits  impatient  for  his  bride. 


THE    LAUNCHING    OF    THE    SHIP.  219 

There  she  stands, 

With  her  foot  upon  the  sands, 

Deck'd  with  flags  and  streamers  gay, 

In  honour  of  her  marriage-day. 

Her  snow-white  signals  fluttering,  blending, 

Round  her  like  a  veil  descending, 

Ready  to  be 

The  bride  of  the  gray  old  sea. 

Then  the  Master, 

With  a  gesture  of  command, 

Waved  his  hand ; 

And  at  the  word 

Loud  and  sudden  there  was  heard. 

All  around  them  and  below, 

The  sound  of  hammers,  blow  on  blow, 

Knocking  away  the  shores  and  spurs  : 

And  see  !  she  stirs  ! 

She  starts,  —she  moves,  —  she  seems  to  feel 

The  thrill  of  life  along  her  keel. 

And,  spurning  with  her  feet  the  ground, 

With  one  exulting,  joyous  bound, 

She  leaps  into  the  ocean's  arms ! 

And,  lo !  from  the  assembled  crowd 

There  rose  a  shout,  prolong'd  and  loud. 

That  to  the  ocean  seem'd  to  say, 

"  Take  her,  O  bridegroom,  old  and  gray ; 

Take  her  to  thy  protecting  arms, 

With  all  her  youth  and  all  her  charms  ! " 

How  beautiful  she  is !  how  fair 

She  lies  within  those  arms  that  press 

Her  form  with  many  a  soft  caress 

Of  tenderness  and  watchful  care ! 

Sail  forth  into  the  sea,  O  ship ! 

Through  wind  and  wave,  right  onward  steer  ! 


220  CHOICE    HEADINGS. 

The  moisten VI  eye,  the  trembling  lip, 
Are  not  the  signs  of  doubt  or  fear. 

Thou,  too,  sail  on,  O  Ship  of  State ! 
Sail  on,  O  Union,  strong  and  great ! 
Humanity,  witli  all  its  fears. 
With  all  the  hopes  of  future  years, 
Is  hanging  breatliless  on  thy  fate  ! 
We  know  what  Master  laid  thy  keel, 
What  Workmen  wrought  thy  ribs  of  steely 
Who  made  each  mast  and  sail  and  rope, 
What  anvils  rang,  what  hammers  beat, 
In  what  a  forge,  and  what  a  heat. 
Were  shaped  the  anchors  of  thy  hope  ! 

Fear  not  each  sudden  sound  and  shock ; 

'Tis  of  the  wave,  and  not  the  rock ; 

'Tis  but  the  flapping  of  the  sail. 

And  not  a  rent  made  b}'  the  gale  ! 

In  spite  of  rock  and  tempest's  roar, 

In  spite  of  false  lights  on  the  shore, 

Sail  on,  nor  fear  to  breast  the  sea ! 

Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  are  all  with  thee  ; 

Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  our  prayers,  our  tears 

Our  faith  triumphant  o'er  our  fears, 

Are  all  with  thee,  — are  all  with  thee ! 


o>«Ko 


ODE  TO  APOLLO. 

John  Keats. 

In  th}'  western  halls  of  gold 

When  thou  sittest  in  thy  state, 

Bards,  that  erst  sublimely  told 

Heroic  deeds,  and  sang  of  fate. 
With  fervour  seize  their  adamantine  lyres, 
Whose  chords  are  solid  rays,  and  twinkle  radiant  fires 


ODE    TO    APOLLO  221 

Here  Homer  with  bis  nervous  arms 

Strikes  the  twanging  harp  of  war ; 

And  even  the  western  splendour  warms, 

While  the  trumpets  sound  afar : 
But,  what  creates  the  most  intense  surprise, 
His  soul  looks  out  through  renovated  eyes. 

Then,  through  thy  temple  wide,  melodious  swells 
The  sweet  majestic  tones  of  Maro's  lyre  : 
The  soul  delighted  on  each  accent  dwells,  — 
Enraptured  dwells,  —  not  daring  to  respire. 
The  while  he  tells  of  grief  around  a  funeral  pyre. 

'Tis  awful  silence  tlien  again ; 

Expectant  stand  the  spheres  ; 

Breathless  the  laurell'd  peers, 

Nor  move,  till  ends  tiie  lofty  strain,  — 
Nor  move,  till  Milton's  tuneful  thunders  cease. 
And  leave  once  more  the  ravish'd  heavens  in  peace. 

Thou  biddest  Shakespeare  wave  his  hand. 

And  quickly  forward  spring 

The  Passions,  —  a  terrific  band,  — 

And  each  vibrates  the  string 
That  with  its  t3-raut  temper  best  accords. 
While  from  their  Master's  lips  pour  forth  th'  inspiring  words 

A  silver  trumpet  Spenser  blows, 

And,  as  its  martial  notes  to  silence  flee, 

From  a  virgin  chorus  flows 

A  hymn  in  praise  of  spotless  Chastity. 
'Tis  still !    AVild  warblings  from  th'  ^Eoliau  lyre 
Enchantmeut  softly  breathe,  and  tremblingly  expire. 

Next  Tasso's  ardent  numbers 
Float  along  the  pleased  air, 
Calling  youth  from  idle  slumbers, 
Rousing  thein  from  Pleasure's  lair: 


222  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Tlien  o'er  the  strings  bis  fingers  gentl}^  move, 
And  melt  the  heart  to  pity  and  to  love. 

But,  when  T/iOH  joinest  with  the  Nine, 
And  all  the  powers  of  song  combine, 

We  listen  here  on  Eartb  : 
The  dying  tones  that  fill  the  air, 
And  charm  the  ear  of  evening  fair, 
From  thee,  great  God  of  Bards,  receive  their  heavenly  birth 

ST.  PETER'S   CHURCH  AT   ROME. 

Lord  Bvron. 

But  lo  !    tlie  dome,  —the  vast  and  wondrous  dome. 
To  which  Diana's  marvel  was  a  cell,  — 
Chi'ist's  mighty  shrine  above  His  martyr's  tomb  ! 
I  have  beheld  tli'  Ephesian  miracle,  — 
Its  columns  strew  the  wilderness,  and  dwell 
Th'  hyaena  and  the  jackal  in  their  shade  : 
I  have  beheld  Sophia's  bright  roofs  swell 
Their  glittering  mass  i'  the  sun,  and  have  survey'd 
Its  sanctuary  the  while  th'  usurping  Moslem  pra^'d  : 

But  thou,  of  ten)ples  old,  or  altars  new, 
Staudest  alone,  —  with  nothing  like  to  thee,  — 
Worthiest  of  God,  the  holy  and  the  true. 
Since  Zion's  desolation,  when  that  He 
Forsook  His  former  city,  what  could  be. 
Of  earthly  structures  in  His  honour  piled, 
Of  a  sublimer  aspect?   Majesty, 
Power,  Glory,  Strength,  and  Beauty,  all  are  aisled 
In  this  eternal  ark  of  worship  undefiled. 

Enter  :   its  grandeur  overwhehns  thee  not ; 
And  why?   it  is  not  lessen'd  ;  but  thy  mind, 
Expanded  l\y  the  genius  of  the  spot. 
Has  grown  colossal,  and  can  only  find 


ST.  Peter's  church  at  rome.  223 

A  fit  abode  wherein  appear  enshrined 
Thy  hopes  of  immortality  ;  and  thou 
Shalt  one  day,  if  found  worthy,  so  defined. 
See  th}-  God  face  to  face,  as  thou  dost  now 
His  Holy  of  Holies,  nor  be  blasted  by  His  brow. 

Thou  movest,  but  increasing  with  th'  advance. 
Like  climbing  some  great  Alp,  which  still  doth  rise, 
Deceived  by  its  gigantic  elegance  ; 
Vastness  which  grows,  but  grows  to  harmonize, 
All  musical  in  its  immensities  ; 
Rich  marbles,  richer  paintings,  shrines  where  flame 
The  lamps  of  gold,  the  haughty  dome  which  vies 
In  air  with  Earth's  chief  structures,  thougii  their  frame 
Sits  on  the  firm-set  ground,  and  this  the  cloud  must  claim. 

Thou  seest  not  all  ;    but  piecemeal  thou  must  break. 
To  separate  contemplation,  the  great  whole  ; 
And  as  the  ocean  many  bays  Avill  make. 
That  ask  the  e3'e,  so  here  condense  thy  soul 
To  more  immediate  objects,  and  control 
Thy  thoughts,  until  thy  mind  hath  got  by  heart 
Its  eloquent  proportions,  and  unroll 
In  mighty  graduations,  part  by  part, 
The  glory  which  at  once  upon  thee  did  not  dart,  — 

Not  by  its  fault,  but  thine.     Our  outward  sense 
Is  but  of  gradual  grasp  ;   and  as  it  is 
That  what  we  have  of  feeling  most  intense 
Outstrips  our  faint  expression  ;  even  so  this 
Outshining  and  o'erwhelmiug  edifice 
Fools  our  fond  gaze,  and,  greatest  of  the  great, 
Defies  at  first  our  nature's  littleness, 
Till,  growing  with  its  growth,  we  thus  dilate 
Our  spirits  to  the  size  of  that  they  contemplate. 


224  CHOICE   READINGS. 

GOD  IN  NATUEE. 

William  Wordsworth. 

And  what  are  things  eternal  ?  —  Powers  depart, 
Possessions  vanish,  and  opinions  change, 
And  passions  hold  a  fluctuating  seat : 
But,  by  the  storms  of  circumstance  unshaken, 
And  subject  neither  to  eclipse  nor  wane, 
Duty  exists;  —  immutably  survive, 
For  our  support,  the  measures  and  the  forms 
Which  an  abstract  intelligence  supplies  ; 
Whose  kingdom  is  where  time  and  space  are  not. 
Of  other  converse  which  mind,  soul,  and  heart 
Do,  with  united  urgency,  require, 

What  more  that  may  not  perish?  —  Thou,  dread  source, 
Prime,  self-existing  cause  and  end  of  all 
That  in  the  scale  of  being  fill  their  place, 
Above  our  human  region,  or  below. 
Set  and  sustain'd  ;  Thou,  who  didst  wrap  the  cloud 
Of  infancy  around  us,  that  Thyself, 
Therein,  with  our  simplicity  awhile 
Mightst  hold,  on  Earth,  communion  undisturb'd ; 
Who  from  the  anarchy  of  dreaming  sleep. 
Or  from  its  death-like  void,  with  punctual  care, 
And  touch  as  gentle  as  the  morning  light, 
Restorest  us,  daily,  to  the  powers  of  sense 
And  reason's  steadfast  rule,  —  Thou,  Thou  alone 
Art  everlasting,  and  the  blessed  Spirits 
Which  Thou  includest,  as  the  sea  her  waves : 
For  adoration  Thou  endurest ;  endui-e 
For  consciousness  the  motions  of  Thy  will ; 
For  apprehension  those  transcendent  truths 
Of  the  pure  intellect,  that  stand  as  laws 
(Submission  constituting  strength  and  power) 
Even  to  Thy  Being's  infinite  majesty ! 
This  Universe  shall  pass  away,  —  a  work 


GOD    IN    NATURE.  225 

Glorious,  because  the  shadow  of  Thv  might, 

A  step,  or  link,  for  intercourse  with  Thee. 

Ah !  if  the  time  must  come  in  which  my  feet 

No  more  shall  stray  where  meditation  leads, 

By  flowing  stream,  through  wood,  or  craggy  wild. 

Loved  haunts  like  these  ;  the  unimprison'd  Mind 

May  yet  have  scope  to  range  among  her  own, 

Her  thoughts,  her  images,  her  high  desires. 

If  the  dear  faculty  of  sight  should  fail, 

Still  it  may  be  allow'd  me  to  remember 

What  visionaiy  powers  of  eye  and  soul 

In  3^outh  were  mine  ;  when,  station'd  on  the  top 

Of  some  huge  hill,  expectant,  I  beheld 

The  Sun  rise  up,  from  distant  climes  return'd 

Darkness  to  chase,  and  sleep ;  and  bring  the  day 

His  bounteous  gift !  or  saw  him  toward  the  deep 

Sink,  with  a  retinue  of  flaming  clouds 

Attended  :  then  my  spirit  was  entranced 

With  joy  exalted  to  beatitude  ; 

The  measure  of  my  soul  was  fill'd  with  bliss, 

And  holiest  love  ;  as  earth,  sea,  air,  with  light, 

With  ix)mp,  with  glor}-,  with  magnificence ! 


226  CHOICE    READINGS. 


VI. 
PATRIOTIC,  SENATORIAL,  ORATORICAL. 

THE  SEVEN  GEE  AT  OEATOES  OF  THE  WORLD.* 
Fortune  of  ^schines. 

Demosthenes. 

Foe,  my  part,  I  regard  any  one,  who  reproaches  his 
fellow-man  with  fortune,  as  devoid  of  sense.  He  that 
is  best  satisfied  with  his  condition,  he  that  deems  his 
fortune  excellent,  cannot  be  sure  that  it  will  remain  so 
until  the  evening :  how  then  can  it  be  right  to  bring  it 
forward,  or  upbraid  another  man  with  it?  As  ^s- 
chines,  however,  has  on  this  subject  (besides  many 
others)  expressed  himself  with  insolence,  look,  men  of 

*We  here  give  a  representative  selection  from  eacli  of  these  orators. 
The  following  extract  from  the  Rev.  Henry  N.  Hudson's  Discourse 
delivered  in  Boston  on  the  hundredth  anniversary  of  the  birth  of  Daniel 
Webster  will  explain  why  we  do  so:  "Sage  and  venerable  Harvard,  on 
mature  consideration  no  doubt,  has  spoken  Webster  for  one  of  the  seven 
great  orators  of  the  world.  At  the  theatre  end  of  her  Memorial  Hall, 
which  has  the  form  of  a  semicircular  polygon,  in  as  many  gablets  or  niches 
rising  above  the  cornice,  the  seven  heads,  of  gigantic  size,  stand  forth  to 
pxiblic  view.  First,  of  course,  is  Demosthenes  the  Greek;  second,  also  of 
course,  Cicero  the  Roman;  third.  Saint  John  Chrysostom,  an  Asiatic  Greek, 
born  about  the  middle  of  the  fourth  century;  fourth,  Jaques  Benigne  Bos- 
suet,  the  great  French  divine  and  author,  contemporary  with  Louis  the 
Fourteenth;  fifth,  William  Pitt  the  elder,  Earl  of  Chatham,  an  English- 
man; sixth,  Edmund  Burke,  an  Irishman,  probably  the  greatest  genius  of 
them  all,  though  not  the  greatest  orator  ;  seventh,  Daniel  Webster.  How 
authentic  the  likenesses  may  be,  I  cannot  say,  except  in  the  case  of  Webster : 
here  the  likeness  is  true;  and,  to  my  sense,  Webster's  head  is  the  finest  of 
the  seven,  unless  that  of  Bossuet  may  be  set  down  as  its  peer." 


THE  SEVEN  GREAT  ORATORS. DEMOSTHENES.     227 

Athens,  and  observe  how  much  more  truth  and  human- 
ity there  shall  be  in  ni}^  discourse  upon  fortune  than  in 
his. 

If  you  are  determined,  ^Eschines,  to  scrutinize  my 
fortune,  compare  it  with  your  own ;  and,  if  you  find 
mine  better  than  yours,  cease  to  revile  it.  Look,  then, 
from  the  very  beginning.  And  I  pray  and  entreat  that 
I  may  not  be  condemned  for  bad  taste.  I  don't  think 
any  person  wise  who  insults  poverty,  or  who  prides  him- 
self on  having  been  bred  in  affluence :  but  by  the  slan- 
der and  malice  of  this  cruel  man  I  am  forced  into  such 
a  discussion ;  which  I  will  conduct  with  all  the  modera- 
tion that  circumstances  allow. 

I  had  the  advantage,  iEschines,  in  my  boyhood  of 
going  to  proper  schools,  and  having  such  allowance 
as  a  boy  should  have  who  is  to  do  nothing  mean  from 
indigence.  Arrived  at  man's  estate,  I  lived  suitably  to 
my  breeding ;  was  choir-master,  ship-commander,  rate- 
payer; backward  in  no  acts  of  liberality,  public  or  pri- 
vate, but  making  myself  useful  to  the  commonwealth 
and  to  my  friends.  When  I  entered  upon  State  affairs, 
I  chose  such  a  line  of  politics,  that  both  by  my  country 
and  many  people  of  Greece  I  have  been  crowned  many 
times,  and  not  even  you  my  enemies  venture  to  say 
that  the  line  I  chose  was  not  honourable.  Such,  then, 
has  been  the  fortune  of  my  life :  I  could  enlarge  upon 
it,  but  I  forbear,  lest  what  I  pride  myself  in  should  give 
offence. 

But  you,  the  man  of  dignity,  who  spit  upon  others, 
look  what  sort  of  fortune  is  yours  compared  with  mine. 
As  a  boy  you  were  reared  in  abject  poverty,  waiting 
with  your  father  on  the  school,  grinding  tlie  ink,  spong- 
ing the  benches,  sweeping  the  room,  doing  the  duty  of 
a  menial  rather  than  a  freeman's  son.     After  you  were 


228  CHOICE    READINGS. 

grown  lip,  you  attended  your  mother's  initiations,  read- 
ing her  books  and  helping  in  all  the  ceremonies :  at 
night  wrapping  the  noviciates  in  fawn-skin,  swilling,  pu- 
rifying, and  scouring  them  with  clay  and  bran,  raising 
them  after  the  lustration,  and  bidding  them  say,  "•  Bad 
I  have  scaped,  and  better  I  have  found  "  ;  priding  your- 
self that  no  one  ever  howled  so  lustily,  —  and  I  believe 
him !  for  don't  suppose  that  he  who  speaks  so  loud  is 
not  a  splendid  howler !  In  the  daytime  you  led  your 
noble  orgiasts,  crowned  with  fennel  and  poplar,  through 
the  highways,  squeezing  the  big-cheeked  serpents,  and 
lifting  them  over  3'^our  head,  and  shouting  and  capering, 
saluted  by  the  beldames  as  Leader,  Conductor,  Chest- 
bearer,  Fan-bearer,  and  the  like  ;  getting  as  your  reward 
tarts  and  biscuits  and  rolls ;  for  which  any  man  might 
well  bless  himself  and  his  fortune ! 

When  you  were  enrolled  among  your  fellow-towns 
men,  —  by  what  means  I  stop  not  to  inquire,  —  you 
immediately  selected  the  most  honourable  of  employ- 
ments, that  of  clerk  and  assistant  to  our  petty  magis- 
trates. From  this  you  were  removed  after  a  while, 
having  done  yourself  all  that  you  charge  others  with ; 
and  then,  sure  enough,  you  disgraced  not  your  antece- 
dents by  your  subsequent  life,  but,  hiring  yourself  to 
those  ranting  players,  as  they  w^ere  called,  Simyliis  and 
Socrates,  you  acted  third  parts,  collecting  figs  and 
grapes  and  olives  like  a  fruiterer,  and  getting  more  from 
them  than  from  the  playing,  in  Avhich  the  lives  of  your 
whole  company  were  at  stake :  for  there  was  an  impla- 
cable and  incessant  war  between  them  and  the  audience, 
from  whom  you  received  so  many  wounds,  that  no  won- 
der you  taunt  as  cowards  people  inexperienced  in  such 
encounters. 

But,  passing  over  what  may  be  imputed  to  poverty, 


THE  SEVEN  GREAT  ORATORS. DEMOSTHENES,     229 

I  will  come  to  the  direct  charges  against  your  character. 
You  espoused  such  a  line  of  politics,  (when  at  last  jou 
tJiought  of  taking  to  them,)  that,  if  your  country  pros- 
pered, you  lived  the  life  of  a  liare,  fearing  and  tremb- 
ling, and  ever  expecting  to  be  scourged  for  the  crimes 
of  which  your  conscience  accused  you :  though  all  have 
seen  how  bold  you  were  during  the  misfortunes  of  the 
rest.  A  man  who  took  courage  at  the  death  of  a  thou- 
sand citizens,  —  what  does  he  deserve  at  the  hands  of  the 
living?  A  great  deal  more  that  I  could  say  about  him 
1  shall  omit:  for  it  is  not  all  I  can  tell  of  his  turpitude 
and  infamy  which  I  ought  to  let  slip  from  my  tongue, 
but  only  what  is  not  disgraceful  to  myself  to  mention. 

Contrast  now  the  circumstances  of  your  life  and 
mine,  gently  and  with  temper,  jEschines ,  and  then  ask 
these  people  whose  fortune  they  would  each  of  them 
prefer.  You  taught  reading,  I  went  to  school ;  you 
performed  initiations,  I  received  them ;  you  danced  in 
the  chorus,  I  furnished  it;  you  were  assembly-clerk,  I 
was  a  speaker :  you  acted  third  parts,  I  heard  you ;  you 
broke  down,  and  I  hissed ;  you  have  worked  as  a  states- 
man for  the  enemy,  I  for  my  country.  I  pass  by  the 
rest ;  but  this  very  day  I  am  on  my  probation  for  a 
crown,  and  am  acknowledged  to  be  innocent  of  all 
offence ;  whilst  you  are  already  judged  to  be  a  petti- 
fogger, and  the  question  is,  whether  you  shall  continue 
that  trade  or  at  once  be  silenced  by  not  getting  a  fifth 
part  of  the  votes.  A  happy  fortune,  do  you  see,  you 
have  enjoyed,  that  you  should  denounce  mine  as  miser- 
able ! 


230  choice  readings. 

Panegyric  on  Julius  C^sar. 

Marcus  Tullius  Cicero. 

This  day,  Conscript  Fathers,  has  brought  with  it  an 
end  to  the  long  silence  in  which  I  have  of  late  indulged; 
not  out  of  any  fear,  but  partly  from  sorrow,  partly  from 
modesty ;  and  at  the  same  time  it  has  revived  in  me 
my  ancient  habit  of  saying  what  my  wishes  and  opin- 
ions are.  For  I  cannot  by  any  means  pass  over  in 
silence  such  great  humanity,  such  unprecedented  and 
unheard-of  clemency,  such  moderation  in  the  exercise 
of  supreme  and  universal  power,  such  incredible  and 
almost  godlike  wisdom.  For,  now  that  Marcus  Mar- 
cellus,  Conscript  Fathers,  has  been  restored  to  you  and 
the  Republic,  I  think  that  not  only  his  voice  and 
authority  are  preserved  and  restored  to  you  and  to  the 
Republic,  but  my  own  alsu. 

For  I  was  concerned,  Conscript  Fathers,  and  most 
exceedingly  grieved,  when  I  saw  such  a  man  as  he  is, 
who  had  espoused  the  same  cause  which  I  had,  not 
enjojdng  the  same  good  fortune  as  myself;  nor  could  I 
persuade  myself  to  think  it  right  or  fair  that  1  should 
be  going  on  in  my  usual  routine,  while  that  rival  and 
imitator  of  my  zeal  and  labours,  who  had  been  a  com- 
panion and  comrade  of  mine  throughout,  was  separated 
from  me.  You,  therefore,  Caius  Csesar,  have  reopened 
to  me  ray  former  habits  of  life,  which  were  closed  up, 
and  have  raised,  as  it  were,  a  standard  to  all  these  men, 
as  a  sort  of  token  to  lead  them  to  entertain  hopes  of 
the  general  welfare  of  the  Republic.  For  it  was  seen 
by  me  before  in  many  instances,  and  especially  in  my 
own,  and  now  it  is  clearly  understood  by  everybody, 
since  you  have  granted  Marcus  Marcellus  to  the  Senate 
and  people  of  Rome,  in  spite  of  your  recollection  of  all 


THE    SEVEN    GREAT    ORATORS.  CICERO.  2.'U 

the  injuries  you  have  received  at  his  hands,  that  you 
prefer  the  authority  of  this  order  and  the  dignity  of  the 
Republic  to  the  indulgence  of  your  own  resentment 
or  suspicions. 

No  one  is  blest  with  such  a  stream  of  genius,  no  one 
is  endowed  with  such  vigour  and  richness  of  eloquence, 
either  as  a  speaker  or  a  writer,  as  to  be  able,  I  will  not 
say  to  extol,  but  even  plainly  to  relate,  O  Csesar,  all 
your  achievements.  Nevertheless  I  assert,  and  with 
your  leave  I  maintain,  that  in  all  of  them  you  never 
gained  greater  and  truer  glory  than  you  have  acquired 
this  day.  I  am  accustomed  often  to  keep  this  idea 
before  my  eyes,  and  to  affirm  it  in  conversation,  that  all 
the  exploits  of  our  own  generals,  all  those  of  foreign 
nations  and  of  the  most  powerful  States,  all  the  mighty 
deeds  of  the  most  illustrious  monarchs,  can  be  compared 
with  yours  neither  in  the  magnitude  of  your  wars,  nor 
in  the  variety  of  countries  which  you  have  conquered, 
nor  in  the  rapidity  of  your  conquests,  nor  in  the  great 
difference  of  character  with  which  your  wars  have  been 
marked ;  and  that  those  countries  the  most  remote  from 
each  other  could  not  be  travelled  over  more  rapidly  by 
any  one  in  a  journey  than  they  have  been  visited  by 
your,  I  will  not  say  journeys,  but  victories. 

And  if  I  were  not  to  admit  that  those  actions  are 
so  great  that  scarcely  any  man's  mind  or  comprehension 
is  capable  of  doing  justice  to  them,  I  should  be  very 
senseless.  But  there  are  other  actions  greater  than 
those.  For  some  people  are  in  the  habit  of  disparaging 
military  glory,  and  of  denying  the  whole  of  it  to  the 
generals,  and  of  giving  the  nuiltitnde  a  share  of  it  also, 
so  that  it  may  not  be  the  peculiar  jjroperty  of  the  con? 
manders.  And  no  doubt,  in  the  affairs  of  war,  the 
valour  of  the  troops,  the   advantages  of  situation,  tiie 


232  CHOICE   READINGS. 

assistance  of  allies,  fleets,  and  supplies,  have  great  influ 
ence ;  and  a  most  important  share  in  all  such  trans 
actions  Fortune  claims  for  herself,  as  of  her  right ;  and 
whatever  has  been  done  successfully  she  considers 
almost  entirely  as  her  own  work. 

But  in  this  glory,  Caius  Csesar,  which  you  have  just 
earned  you  have  no  partners.  The  whole  of  this,  how- 
ever great  it  may  be,  —  and  surely  it  is  as  great  as  pos- 
sible, —  the  whole  of  it,  I  say,  is  your  own.  The  centu- 
rion can  claim  for  himself  no  share  of  that  praise,  neither 
can  the  prefect,  nor  the  battallion,  nor  the  squadron. 
Nay,  even  that  very  mistress  of  all  human  affairs.  For- 
tune herself,  cannot  thrust  herself  into  any  participation 
in  that  glory :  she  yields  to  you :  she  confesses  that  it 
is  all  your  own,  your  peculiar  private  desert.  For  rash- 
ness is  never  united  with  wisdom,  nor  is  chance  ever 
admitted  to  regulate  affairs  conducted  with  prudence. 

You  have  subdued  nations  savage  in  their  barbarism, 
countless  in  their  numbers,  boundless,  if  we  regard  the 
extent  of  country  peopled  by  them,  and  rich  in  every 
kind  of  resource ;  but  still  you  were  only  conquering 
things  the  nature  and  condition  of  which  were  such 
that  they  could  be  overcome  by  force.  For  there  is  no 
strength  so  great  that  it  cannot  be  weakened  and 
broken  by  arms  and  violence.  But,  to  subdue  one's 
inclinations,  to  master  one's  angry  feelings,  to  be  mod- 
erate in  the  hour  of  victory,  not  merely  to  raise  from 
the  ground  a  prostrate  adversary,  eminent  for  noble 
birth,  for  genius  and  for  virtue,  but  even  to  increase 
his  previous  dignity,  —  these  are  actions  of  such  a 
nature  that  I  do  not  compare  the  author  of  them  to  the 
most  illustrious  man,  but  consider  him  equal  to  a  god. 

Therefore,  O  Csesar,  those  military  glories  of  yours  will 
be  celebrated  not  only  in  our  own  literature  and  Ian- 


THE    SEVEN    GREAT    ORATOUS.  CHRYSOSTOM.  233 

guage,  but  in  those  of  almost  all  nations ;  nor  will  any 
age  ever  be  silent  about  your  praises.  But  still,  deeds 
of  that  sort,  somehow  or  other,  even  when  they  are 
read,  appear  to  be  overwhelmed  with  the  cries  of  the 
soldiers  and  the  sound  of  the  trumpets.  But,  when  we 
hear  or  read  of  anything  that  has  been  done  with  clem- 
ency, with  humanity,  with  justice,  with  moderation, 
and  with  wisdom,  especially  in  a  time  of  anger,  which 
is  very  adverse  to  prudence,  and  in  the  hour  of  victory, 
which  is  naturally  insolent  and  haughty;  Avith  what 
ardour  are  we  then  inflamed,  (even  if  the  actions  have 
not  really  been  performed,  but  are  only  fabulous,)  so  as 
often  to  love  those  whom  we  have  never  seen  !  But  as 
for  you,  whom  we  behold  present  among  us,  whose 
mind  and  heart  and  countenance  we  at  this  moment  see 
to  be  such,  that  you  wish  to  preserve  everything  which 
the  fortune  of  war  has  left  to  the  Republic,  O,  with 
what  praises  must  we  extol  you  I  with  wluit  zeal  nuist 
we  follow  you !  with  what  affection  nuist  we  devote 
ourselves  to  you !  The  very  walls,  I  declare,  the  very 
walls  of  this  Senate-house  seem  to  me  eager  to  return 
you  thanks;  because,  in  a  short  time,  you  will  have 
restored  their  ancient  authority  to  this  venerable  abode 
of  themselves  and  of  their  ancestors. 


Divine  Providence  in  Nature. 

Saint  John  Chrysostom. 

Dost  thou  not  perceive  how  this  body  wastes  away, 
withers,  and  perishes  on  the  flight  of  the  soul,  and  each 
of  the  elements  thereof  returns  to  its  own  proper  abode  ? 
This  very  same  thing,  indeed,  would  also  happen  to  the 
world,  if  the  Power  which  always  governs  it  had  left  it 
devoid  of  its  own  providence.     For,  if  a  ship  does  not 


284  CHOICE    READINGS. 

hold  on  its  way  without  a  pilot,  but  soon  founders,  how 
could  the  world  have  subsisted  so  long  a  time  with  no 
one  to  govern  its  course  ?  And,  that  I  may  not  enlarge, 
suppose  the  world  to  be  a  ship  ;  the  earth  to  be  placed 
below  as  the  keel ;  the  shy  to  be  the  sail ;  men  to  be 
the  passengers ;  the  subjacent  abyss,  the  sea.  How  is 
it,  then,  that,  during  so  long  a  time,  no  shipwreck  has 
taken  place?  Now,  let  a  ship  go  one  day  Avithout  a 
pilot  and  seamen,  and  thou  wilt  see  it  straightway  over- 
whelmed !  But  the  world,  though  subsisting  now  five 
thousand  years,  and  many  more,  hath  suffered  nothing 
of  the  kind. 

But  why  do  I  talk  of  a  ship?  Suppose  one  hath 
pitched  a  small  hut  in  the  vineyards ;  and,  when  the 
fruit  is  gathered,  leaves  it  vacant :  it  stands,  however, 
scarce  two  or  three  days,  but  goes  to  pieces,  and  quickly 
falls  down  destroyed  I  Could  not  a  hut,  forsooth,  stand 
without  superintendence  ?  How,  then,  could  the  work- 
manship of  the  world,  so  fair  and  marvellous  ?  the  laws 
of  the  night  and  day  ?  the  interchanging  dances  of  the 
seasons  ?  the  course  of  Nature  chequered  and  varied  as 
it  is  in  every  way  throughout  the  earth,  the  sea,  the 
sky?  in  plants,  and  in  animals  that  fly,  swim,  walk, 
creep?  and  in  the  race  of  men,  far  more  dignified  than 
any  of  these  ;  —  how  could  all  continue,  yet  unbroken, 
during  so  long  a  period,  without  some  kind  of  prov- 
idence ? 

But,  in  addition  to  what  has  been  said,  follow  me 
whilst  I  enumerate  the  meadows,  the  gardens,  the 
flowery  tribes ;  all  sorts  of  herbs,  and  their  uses ;  their 
odours,  forms,  disposition,  yea,  but  their  very  names ; 
the  trees  which  are  fruitful,  and  the  barren  ;  the  nature 
of  metals,  —  that  of  animals,  —  in  the  sea,  or  on  the 
land ;  of  those  that  swim,  and  those  that  traverse  the 


THE    SEVEN    GREAT   ORATORS. — ClIRYSOSTOM.  235 

air  ;  the  mountains,  the  forests,  tlie  groves  ;  the  meadow 
below,  and  the  meadow  above,  —  for  there  is  a  meadow 
on  the  earth,  and  a  meadow  too  in  the  sky ;  the  various 
llowers  of  the  stars ;  the  rose  below,  and  the  rainbow 
above  !  Would  you  have  me  point  out  also  the  meadow 
of  the  birds  ?  Consider  the  variegated  body  of  the  pea- 
cock, surpassing  every  dye,  and  the  fowls  of  purple 
l)lumage. 

Contemplate  with  me  the  l)eauty  of  the  sky  :  how  it 
lias  been  preserved  so  long  without  being  dimmed  ;  and 
remains  as  bright  and  clear  as  if  it  had  been  fabricated 
to-da}^ ;  moreover,  the  power  of  the  Earth,  liow  it  has 
not  become  effete  by  bringing  forth  during  so  long  a 
time!  Contemplate  with  me  the  fountains:  how  they 
burst  forth  and  fail  not,  since  the  time  they  were 
begotten,  to  flow  forth  continually  throughout  the  day 
and  night !  Contemplate  with  me  the  sea,  receiving  so 
many  rivers,  yet  never  exceeding  its  measure  !  But  how 
long  might  we  continue  to  pursue  things  incomprehen- 
sible !  It  is  fit,  indeed,  that,  over  every  one  of  these 
wliich  have  been  spoken  of,  we  should  say,  "O  Lord, 
liow  hast  Thou  magnified  Thy  works!  in  wisdom  hast 
Thou  made  them  all." 

But  what  is  the  sapient  answer  of  the  unbelievers, 
when  we  go  over  all  these  particulars  with  them, —  the 
magnitude,  the  beautv  of  creation,  the  richness,  the 
munificence  everywhere  displayed?  This  very  thing, 
say  they,  is  the  worst  fault,  that  God  hath  made  the 
world  so  beautiful  and  so  vast.  For,  if  he  had  not 
made  it  beautiful  and  vast,  we  should  not  have  made  a 
god  of  it ;  but  now,  being  struck  with  its  grandeur,  and 
marvelling  at  its  beauty,  we  have  thought  it  to  be  a 
deity  But  such  an  argument  is  good  for  nothing. 
For,    that   neither   the    magnitude  nor   beauty  of  the 


S36  CHOICE    READINGS. 

world  is  the  cause  of  this  impiety,  but  their  own 
absurdity,  is  wliat  we  are  prepared  to  show,  proved  by 
tlie  case  of  ourselves,  who  have  never  been  so  affected. 

Why,  then,  have  we  not  made  a  deit}^  of  it?  Do  we 
not  see  it  with  the  same  eyes  as  themselves  ?  Do  we 
not  enjoy  the  same  advantage  from  the  creation  with 
themselves  ?  Do  we  not  possess  the  same  soul  ?  Have 
we  not  the  same  body  ?  Do  we  not  tread  the  same 
earth  ?  How  comes  it  that  this  beauty  and  magnitude 
have  not  persuaded  us  to  think  the  same  as  they  do? 
But  this  will  be  evident  not  from  this  proof  only,  but 
from  another  besides.  For,  as  a  proof  that  it  is  not  for 
its  beauty  they  have  made  a  deity  of  it,  but  by  reason  of 
their  own  folly,  why  do  they  adore  the  ape,  the  croco- 
dile, the  dog,  and  the  vilest  of  animals?  Truly,  "they 
became  vain  in  their  imaginations,  and  their  foolish 
heart  was  darkened.  Professing  themselves  to  be  wise, 
they  became  fools." 


EuLOGiuM  UPON  St.  Paul. 

Jaques  Benigne  Bossuet. 

Christians,  do  not  expect  that  the  apostle  will  flat- 
ter your  ears  b}'  harmonious  cadences,  or  charm  them  by 
gratifiying  your  vain  curiosity ;  listen  to  what  he  says 
of  himself.  We  preach  hidden  wisdom,  —  we  preach  a 
crucified  God.  Do  not  let  us  seek  to  add  vain  orna- 
ments to  that  God  who  rejects  the  things  of  this  world. 
Tf  our  lowliness  is  displeasing  to  the  great,  let  them 
know  that  we  covet  their  disdain,  for  Jesus  Christ 
despises  their  ostentatious  indolence,  and  desires  only 
to  be  known  to  the  humble.  The  discourses  of  St. 
Paul,  far  from  flowing  with  that  agreeable  sweetness, 
that  calm  equality  which  we  admire  in  other  orators, 


THE    SEVEN    GUEAT    ORATORS. BOSSUET.  2ol 

appear  unequal  and  unfinished  to  tliose  who  do  not 
study  tliem  deeply ;  and  the  delicate  ones  of  this  Earth 
whose  ears,  as  they  say,  are  so  refined,  are  often  offended 
Ijy  his  irregular  style. 

But  do  not  let  us  blush  for  this.  The  words  of  the 
apostle  are  simple,  but  his  thoughts  are  divine.  If  lie 
is  ignorant  of  rhetoric  and  despises  philosophy,  Jesus 
Christ  takes  the  place  of  all,  and  His  name,  which  is 
ever  in  his  mouth,  and  His  mysteries,  which  he  describes 
in  such  a  tone  of  inspiration,  render  liis  simplicity  all- 
powerful. 

This  man,  unacquainted  with  fine  language,  whose 
elocution  was  rude,  and  who  spoke  like  a  stranger,  goes 
into  polished  Greece,  the  mother  of  philosophy  and 
oratory;  and  notwithstanding  the  opposition  of  the 
people  he  there  established  more  churches  than  Plato 
had  acquired  disciples,  by  an  eloquence  which  was 
thought  divine.  He  pushed  his  conquests  still  further : 
he  brought  the  majesty  of  the  Roman  fasces  to  the  feet 
of  Jesus,  in  the  person  of  a  proconsul,  and  caused  the 
judges,  before  whom  he  was  cited,  to  tremble  on  their 
judgment-seats.  Rome  even  listened  to  his  voice ;  and 
the  day  will  yet  arrive  when  this  ancient  mistress  of 
the  world  will  deem  herself  more  honoured  by  an  epistle 
of  Paul,  addressed  to  her  citizens,  than  all  the  far- 
famed  harrangues  delivered  in  the  forum  by  Cicero. 

And  from  whence.  Christians,  is  this  ?  It  is  tliat  St. 
Paul  had  resources  of  persuasion  that  Greece  could  not 
teach,  and  Rome  had  not  yet  acquired,  — an  inspired 
power  which  delights  in  extolling  what  the  great 
despise,  and  which  is  spread  over  and  mingled  with  the 
august  simplicity  of  his  words. 

It  is  this  which  causes  us  to  admire,  in  his  epistles,  a 
sentiment  of  superhuman  virtue  which  prevails  above 


238  CHOICE    READINGS. 

ordinary  rules,  or  rather  does  not  persuade  so  much  as 
it  captivates  the  understanding,  —  which  does  not  flat- 
ter the  ear,  but  goes  direct  to  the  heart ;  just  as  we  see 
a  great  river  retain,  when  flowing  through  the  plain, 
that  violent  and  impetuous  force  which  it  had  acquired 
in  the  mountains  from  whence  it  derived  its  source. 
Thus  the  holy  virtue  which  is  contained  in  the  writings 
of  St.  Paul,  even  in  the  simplicity  of  his  style,  preserves 
all  the  vigour  it  brings  from  the  Heavens  whence  it  has 
descended. 


Against  the   Stamp  Act. 

William  Pitt,  Earl  of  Chatham. 

Gentlemen,  Sir,  have  been  charged  with  giving  birth 
to  sedition  in  America.  Several  have  spoken  their  senti- 
ments with  freedom  against  this  unhappy  Act,  and  that 
freedom  has  become  their  crime.  Sorry  I  am  to  hear 
the  liberty  of  speech  in  this  House  imputed  as  a  crime. 
But  this  imputation  shall  not  discourage  me.  It  is  a 
liberty  I  mean  to  exercise.  No  gentleman  ought  to  be 
afraid  to  exercise  it.  It  is  a  liberty  by  which  the 
gentleman  who  calumniates  it  might  have  profited.  He 
ought  to  have  profited.  He  ought  to  have  desisted  from 
his  project. 

The  gentleman  tells  us  America  is  obstinate ;  America 
is  almost  in  open  rebellion.  I  rejoice  that  America  has 
resisted.  Three  millions  of  people  so  dead  to  all  the 
feelings  of  liberty,  as  voluntarily  to  let  themselves  be 
made  slaves,  would  have  been  fit  instruments  to  make 
slaves  of  all  the  rest.  I  come  not  here  armed  at  all 
points  with  law  cases  and  Acts  of  Parliament,  with  the 
statute-book  doubled  down  in  dogs'  ears,  to  defend  the 
cause  of  liberty.     I  would  not  debate  a  point  of  law  with 


THE    SEVEN    GREAT    ORATORS.  CHATHAM.  239 

the  gentleman  :  I  know  his  abilities.  I  have  been  obliged 
to  his  diligent  researches.  But,  for  the  defence  of 
liberty,  upon  a  general  principle,  upon  a  constitutional 
principle,  it  is  aground  on  wliicli  I  stand  firm  ;  on  which 
I  dare  meet  any  man. 

Since  the  accession  of  King  William,  many  Ministers, 
some  of  great,  others  of  modeiate  abilities,  have  taken 
the  lead  of  Government.  None  of  these  thought  or 
even  dreamed  of  robbing  the  colonies  of  their  constitu- 
tional rights.  That  was  reserved  to  mark  the  era  of  the 
late  administration :  not  that  tliere  were  wanting  some, 
when  I  had  the  honour  to  serve  his  Majesty,  to  propose  to 
me  to  burn  my  fingers  with  an  American  Stamp  Act. 
With  the  enemy  at  their  back,  with  our  bayonets  at 
their  breasts,  in  the  depth  of  their  distress  perhaps  the 
Americans  would  have  submitted  to  the  imposition  ; 
but  it  would  have  been  taking  an  ungenerous  and  un- 
just advantage. 

The  gentleman  boasts  of  his  bounties  to  America! 
Are  not  those  bounties  intended  finally  for  the  benefit 
of  this  kingdom  ?  If  they  are  not,  he  has  misapplied  the 
national  treasures.  I  am  no  courtier  for  America,  —  I 
stand  up  for  this  kingdom.  I  maintain  that  the  Parlia- 
ment has  a  right  to  bind,  to  restrain  America.  Our 
legislative  power  over  the  colonies  is  sovereign  and 
supreme.  When  two  countries  are  connected,  like  Eng- 
land and  her  colonies,  without  being  incorporated,  the 
one  must  necessarily  govern  ;  the  greater  must  rule  the 
less ;  but  so  rule  it  as  not  to  contradict  the  fundamental 
principles  that  are  common  to  both. 

The  gentleman  asks  "  When  were  the  colonies  eman- 
cipated?" I  desire  to  know  when  they  were  made 
slaves.  But  I  will  not  dwell  upon  words.  When  I 
had  the  honour  of  serving  his  Majesty,  I  availed  myself 


240  CHOICE    READINGS. 

of  the  means  of  information  which  I  derived  from  my 
office  :  I  speak,  therefore,  from  knowledge.  My  materials 
were  good ;  I  was  at  pains  to  collect,  to  digest,  to  con- 
sider them  ;  and  I  will  be  bold  to  affirm  that  the  profits 
of  Great  Britain  from  the  trade  of  the  colonies,  through 
all  its  branches,  are  two  millions  a-year.  This  is  the 
fund  that  carried  you  triumphantly  through  the  last 
war.  The  estates  that  were  rented  at  two  thousand 
pounds  a-year,  threescore  years  ago,  are  at  three  thou- 
sand pounds  at  present.  These  estates  sold  then  for 
from  fifteen  to  eighteen  years'  purchase ;  the  same  may 
now  be  sold  for  thirty. 

You  owe  this  to  America.  This  is  the  price  America 
pays  for  her  protection.  And  shall  a  miserable  financier 
come  with  a  boast,  that  he  can  fetch  a  pe^jpercorn  into 
the  Exchequer  by  the  loss  of  millions  to  the  nation  ?  I 
dare  not  say  how  much  higher  these  profits  may  be  aug- 
mented. Omitting  the  immense  increase  of  people  by 
natural  population  in  the  northern  colonies,  and  the  emi- 
gration from  every  part  of  Europe,  I  am  convinced  that 
the  whole  commercial  system  of  America  may  be  altered 
to  advantage.  You  have  prohibited  where  you  ought 
to  have  encouraged  ;  and  you  have  encouraged  where 
you  ought  to  have  prohibited.  Improjjer  restraints  have 
been  laid  on  the  continent  in  favour  of  the  islands.  You 
have  but  two  nations  to  trade  with  in  America.  Would 
you  had  twenty ! 

A  great  deal  has  been  said  without  doors  of  the  power, 
of  the  strength,  of  America.  It  is  a  topic  that  ought  to 
be  cautiously  meddled  with.  In  a  good  cause,  on  a 
sound  bottom,  the  force  of  this  country  can  crush 
America  to  atoms.  I  know  the  valour  of  your  troojjs; 
I  know  the  skill  of  your  officers.  There  is  not  a  com- 
pany of  foot  that  has  served  in  America,  out  of  which 


THE    SEVEN    GREAT    ORATORS. — CHATHAM.  241 

you  may  not  pick  a  man  of  sufficient  knowledge  and 
experience  to  make  a  governor  of  a  colony  there.  But, 
on  this  ground,  —  on  the  Stamp  Act,  —  when  so  many 
here  will  think  it  a  crying  injustice,  I  am  one  who  will 
lift  up  my  hands  against  it. 

In  such  a  cause  even  your  success  would  be  hazardous. 
America,  if  she  fell,  would  fall  like  a  strong  man. 
She  would  embrace  the  pillars  of  the  State,  and  puil 
doAvn  the  Constitution  along  with  her.  Is  this  j'our 
boasted  peace  ?  — 'to  sheathe  the  sword,  not  in  its  scab- 
bard, but  in  the  bowels  of  your  countrymen  ?  Will  you 
quarrel  with  yourselves  now  that  the  whole  House  of 
Bourbon  is  united  against  you  ?  —  while  France  disturbs 
your  fisheries  in  Newfoundland,  and  withholds  from 
vour  subjects  in  Canada  their  property  stipulated  by 
treaty  ?  while  the  ransom  for  the  Manillas  is  denied  ])y 
Spain,  and  its  gallant  conqueror  basely  traduced  into  a 
mean  plunderer, — a  gentleman  whose  noble  and  gen- 
erous spirit  would  do  honour  to  the  proudest  grandee 
of  the  country? 

The  Americans  have  not  acted  in  all  things  with 
prudence  and  temper.  The  Americans  have  been 
wronged.  They  have  been  driven  to  madness  by  injus- 
tice. Will  you  punish  them  for  the  madness  which  yt)u 
have  occasioned?  Rather  let  prudence  and  temjiei 
come  first  from  this  side.  I  will  undertake  for  America 
that  she  will  follow  the  example.  —  Upon  the  whole,  1 
will  beg  leave  to  tell  the  House  what  is  really  my 
opinion.  It  is,  that  the  Stamp  Act  be  repealed^  absolutely 
totally,  and  immediately. 


242  choice  readings. 

Impeachment  of  Hastings  Finished. 

Edmund  Burke. 

My  Lords,  I  have  clone  ;  the  part  of  the  Commons  is 
concluded.  With  a  trembling  solicitude  we  consign  this 
product  of  our  long,  long  labours  to  your  charge.  Take 
it !  —  take  it !  It  is  a  sacred  trust.  Never  before  was 
a  cause  of  such  magnitude  submitted  to  any  human 
tribunal. 

My  Lords,  at  this  awful  close,  in  the  name  of  the 
Commons,  and  surrounded  by  them,  I  attest  the  retiring, 
1  attest  the  advancing  generations,  between  which,  as  a 
link  in  the  great  chain  of  eternal  order,  we  stand.  We 
call  this  nation,  we  call  the  world  to  witness,  that  the 
Commons  have  shrunk  from  no  labour,  that  we  have 
been  guilty  of  no  prevarication,  that  we  have  made  no 
compromise  with  crime,  that  we  have  not  feared  any 
odium  whatsoever,  in  the  long  warfare  which  we  have 
carried  on  with  the  crimes,  with  the  vices,  with  the 
exorbitant  wealth,  with  the  enormous  and  overpowering 
influence  of  Eastern  corruption.  This  war  we  have 
waged  for  twenty-two  years,  and  the  conflict  has  been 
fought  at  your  Lordships'  bar  for  the  last  seven  years. 
My  Lords,  twent3'-two  years  is  a  great  space  in  the  scale 
of  the  life  of  man ;  it  is  no  inconsiderable  space  in  the 
history  of  a  great  nation. 

A  business  which  has  so  long  occupied  the  councils 
and  the  tribunals  of  Great  Britain  cannot  possibly  be 
huddled  over  in  the  course  of  vulgar,  trite,  and  transi- 
tory events.  Nothing  but  some  of  those  great  revolu- 
tions that  break  the  traditionary  chain  of  human  mem 
ory,  and  alter  the  very  face  of  Nature  itself,  can  pos- 
sibly obscure  it.     My  Lords,  we  are    all  elevated  to  a 


THE    SEVEN    GREAT    ORATORS.  BURKE.  243 

degree  of  importance  by  it ;  the  meanest  of  us  will,  by 
means  of  it,  more  or  less  become  the  concern  of  pos- 
terity, —  if  we  are  yet  to  hope  for  such  a  thing,  in  the 
present  state  of  the  world,  as  a  recording,  retrospective, 
civilized  posterity :  but  this  is  in  the  hands  of  the  great 
Disposer  of  events ;  it  is  not  ours  to  settle  how  it  shall 
be. 

My  Lords,  j-our  House  yet  stands,  —  it  stands  as  a 
great  edifice ;  but  let  me  say  that  it  stands  in  the  midst 
of  ruins,  —  in  the  midst  of  the  ruins  that  have  been 
made  by  the  greatest  moral  earthquake  that  ever  con- 
vulsed and  shattered  this  globe  of  ours.  My  Lords,  it 
has  pleased  Providence  to  place  us  in  such  a  state,  that 
we  appear  every  moment  to  be  upon  the  verge  of  some 
great  mutations.  There  is  one  thing,  and  one  thing  only, 
Avhich  defies  all  mutation,  —  that  which  existed  before 
the  world,  and  will  survive  the  fabric  of  the  world  itself : 
I  mean  justice,  —  that  justice  which,  emanating  from  the 
Divinity,  has  a  place  in  the  breast  of  every  one  of  us, 
given  us  for  our  guide  with  regard  to  ourselves  and  with 
regard  to  others,  and  which  will  stand,  after  this  globe 
is  burned  to  ashes,  our  advocate  or  accuser  before  the 
great  Judge. 

My  Lords,  the  Commons  will  share  in  every  fate  with 
your  Lordsliips ;  there  is  nothing  sinister  which  can 
happen  to  you,  in  which  we  shall  not  be  involved.  And 
if  it  should  so  happen  that  we  shall  be  subjected  to 
some  of  those  frightful  changes  which  we  have  seen  ;  if 
it  should  happen  that  your  Lordships,  stripped  of  all 
the  decorous  distinctions  of  human  society,  should,  by 
hands  at  once  base  and  cruel,  be  led  to  those  scaffolds 
and  machines  of  murder  upon  which  great  kings  and 
glorious  queens  have  shed  their  blood,  amidst  the  pre- 
lates, amidst  the  nobles,  amidst  the   magistrates  who 


244  CHOICE    HEADINGS. 

supported  their  thrones,  may  you,  in  those  moments, 
feel  that  consolation  which  I  am  persuaded  they  felt  in 
the  critical  moments  of  their  dreadful  agony ! 

My  Lords,  there  is  a  consolation,  —  and  a  great  con- 
solation it  is  !  —  which  often  happens  to  oppressed  vir- 
tue and  fallen  dignity.  It  often  happens  that  the  very 
oppressors  and  j)erscutors  themselves  are  forced  to  bear 
testimony  in  its  favour.  I  do  not  like  to  go  for  in- 
stances a  great  way  back  into  antiquity.  I  know  very 
well  that  length  of  time  operates  so  as  to  give  an  air  of 
the  fabulous  to  remote  events,  which  lessens  the  interest 
and  weakens  the  application  of  examples.  I  wish  to 
come  nearer  the  present  time. 

Your  Lordships  know  and  have  heard  (for  which  of 
us  has  not  known  and  heard?)  of  the  Parliament  of 
Paris.  The  Parliament  of  Paris  had  an  origin  very, 
very  similar  to  that  of  the  great  Court  before  which  I 
stand ;  the  Parliament  of  Paris  continued  to  have  a 
great  resemblance  to  it  in  its  constitution,  even  to  its 
fall.  The  Parliament  of  Paris,  my  Lords,  was  ;  it  is 
gone  !  It  has  passed  away ;  it  has  vanished  like  a 
dream  !  It  fell,  pierced  by  the  sword  of  the  Comte  de 
Mirabeau.  And  yet  I  will  say  that  that  man,  at  the  time 
of  his  inflicting  the  death-wound  of  that  Parliament, 
produced  at  once  the  shortest  and  the  grandest  funeral 
oration  that  ever  was  or  could  be  made  upon  the 
departure  of  a  great  court  of  magistracy.  Though  he 
had  himself  smarted  under  its  lash,  as  every  one  knows 
who  knows  Ids  history,  (and  he  was  elevated  to  dread- 
ful notoriety  in  history,)  yet,  when  he  pronounced  the 
death-sentence  upon  that  Parliament,  and  inflicted  the 
mortal  wound,  he  declared  that  his  motives  for  doing  it 
were  merely  political,  and  that  their  hands  were  as  pure 
as  those  of  justice  itself,  which  they  administered. 


THE    SEVEN   GREAT    ORATORS.  WEBSTER.  245 

A  great  and  glorious  exit,  my  Lords,  of  a  great  and 
glorious  body !  And  never  was  an  eulogy  pronounced 
upon  a  body  more  deserved.  They  were  persons,  in 
nobility  of  rank,  in  amplitude  of  fortune,  in  weight  of 
authority,  in  depth  of  learning,  inferior  to  few  of  those 
that  hear  me.  My  Lords,  it  was  but  the  other  day  that 
they  submitted  their  necks  to  the  axe  ;  but  their  honour 
was  unwounded.  Their  enemies,  the  persons  who  sen- 
tenced them  to  death,  were  lawyers  full  of  subtlety, 
they  were  enemies  full  of  malice ;  yet,  lawyers  full  of 
subtlety,  and  enemies  full  of  malice,  as  they  were,  they 
did  not  dare  to  reproach  them  with  having  supported 
the  wealthy,  the  great,  and  powerful,  and  of  having 
ojipressed  the  weak  and  feeble,  in  any  of  their  judg- 
ments, or  of  having  perverted  justice,  in  any  one  instance 
whatever,  through  favour,  through  interest,  or  cabal. 

My  Lords,  if  you  must  fall,  may  you  so  fall  !  But,  if 
you  stand,  —  and  stand  I  trust  you  will,  together  with 
the  fortune  of  this  ancient  monarchy,  together  with  the 
ancient  laws  and  liberties  of  this  great  and  illustrious 
kingdom,  —  may  you  stand  as  unimpeached  in  honour 
as  in  power !  May  you  stand,  not  as  a  substitute  for 
virtue,  but  as  an  ornament  of  virtue,  as  a  security  for 
virtue  !  May  you  stand  long,  and  long  stand  the  terror 
of  tyrants !  May  you  stand  the  refuge  of  afflicted 
nations !  May  you  stand  a  sacred  temple,  for  the  per- 
petual residence  of  an  inviolable  justice  ! 


Supposed  Speech  of  John  Adams. 

Daniel  Webster. 

Sink  or  swim,  live  or  die,  survive  or  perish,  I  give  my 
hand  and  my  heart  to  this  vote.  It  is  true  indeed  that 
in  the  beginning  we  aimed  not  at  independence.     But 


246  CHOICE    READINGS. 

there's  a  Divinity  which  shapes  our  ends.  The  injus 
tice  of  England  has  driven  us  to  arms ;  and,  blinded  to 
her  own  interest  for  our  good,  she  has  obstinately  per- 
sisted, till  independence  is  now  within  our  grasp.  We 
have  but  to  reach  forth  to  it,  and  it  is  ours.  Why  then 
should  we  defer  the  declaration  ?  Is  any  man  so  weak 
as  now  to  hope  for  a  reconciliation  with  England,  which 
shall  leave  either  safety  to  the  country  and  its  liberties, 
or  safety  to  his  life  and  his  own  honour  ?  Are  not  you. 
Sir,  who  sit  in  that  chair,  is  not  he,  our  venerable 
colleague  near  you,  are  you  not  both  already  the  pro- 
scribed and  predestined  objects  of  punishment  and  of 
vengeance  ?  Cut  off  from  all  hope  of  royal  clemency, 
what  are  you,  what  can  you  be,  while  the  power  of 
England  remains,  but  outlaws  ? 

If  we  postpone  independence,  do  we  mean  to  carry 
on,  or  to  give  up,  the  war?  Do  we  mean  to  submit  to 
the  measures  of  Parliament,  Boston-Port  Bill  and  all? 
Do  we  mean  to  submit,  and  consent  that  we  ourselves 
shall  be  ground  to  powder,  and  our  country  and  its 
rights  trodden  down  in  the  dust  ?  I  know  we  do  not 
mean  to  submit.  We  never  shall  submit.  Do  we 
mean  to  violate  that  most  solemn  obligation  ever  en- 
tered into  by  men,  that  plighting,  before  God,  of  our 
sacred  honour  to  Washington,  when,  putting  him  forth 
to  incur  the  dangers  of  war,  as  well  as  the  jDolitical 
hazards  of  the  times,  we  promised  to  adhere  to  him, 
in  every  extremity,  with  our  fortunes  and  our  lives  ?  I 
know  there  is  not  a  man  here,  who  would  not  rather  see 
a  general  conflagration  sweep  over  the  land,  or  an 
earthquake  sink  it,  than  one  jot  or  tittle  of  that  plighted 
faith  fall  to  the  ground.  For  myself,  having,  twelve 
months  ago,  in  this  place,  moved  you,  that  George 
Washington    be    appointed    commander   of  the    forces 


THE    SEVEN    GKEAT    ORATOR3.  WEBSTER.  247 

raised,  or  to  be  raised,  for  defence  of  American  liberty, 
may  my  right  hand  forget  her  cunning,  and  my  tongue 
cleave  to  the  roof  of  my  mouth,  if  I  hesitate  or  waver 
in  the  support  I  give  him. 

The  war,  then,  must  go  on.  We  must  fight  it 
through.  And  if  the  war  must  go  on,  why  put  off  lon- 
ger the  Declaration  of  Independence?  That  measure 
will  strengthen  us.  It  will  give  us  character  abroad. 
The  nations  will  then  treat  with  us,  which  they  never 
can  do  while  we  acknowledge  ourselves  subjects  in 
arms  against  our  sovereign.  Nay,  I  maintain  that  Eng- 
land hersQlf  will  sooner  treat  for  peace  with  us  on  the 
footing  of  independence  than  consent,  by  repealing  her 
Acts,  to  acknowledge  that  her  whole  conduct  toward 
us  has  been  a  course  of  injustice  and  oppression.  Her 
pride  will  be  less  wounded  by  submitting  to  that  course 
of  things  which  now  predestinates  our  independence 
than  by  yielding  the  points  in  controversy  to  her  rebel- 
lious subjects.  The  former  she  would  regard  as  the 
result  of  fortune  ;  the  latter  she  would  feel  as  her  own 
deep  disgrace.  Why  then,  why  then.  Sir,  do  we  not  as 
soon  as  possible  change  this  from  a  civil  to  a  national 
war?  And,  since  we  must  fight  it  through,  why  not 
put  ourselves  in  a  state  to  enjoy  all  the  benefits  of  vic- 
tory, if  we  gain  the  victory  ? 

If  we  fail,  it  can  be  no  worse  for  us.  But  we  shall 
not  fail.  The  cause  will  raise  up  armies ;  the  cause 
will  create  navies.  The  people,  the  people,  if  we  are 
true  to  them,  will  carry  us,  and  will  cany  themselves, 
gloriously  through  the  struggle.  I  care  not  how  fickle 
other  people  have  been  found.  I  know  the  people  of 
these  Colonies,  and  I  know  that  resistance  to  British 
aggression  is  deep  and  settled  in  their  hearts,  and  can- 
not be  eradicated.  Every  Colony,  indeed,  has  expressed 
its  willingness  to  follow,  if  we  but  take  the  lead. 


248  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Sir,  the  Declaration  will  inspire  the  people  with 
increased  courage.  Instead,  of  a  long  and  bloody  war 
for  restoration  of  privileges,  for  redress  of  grievances, 
for  chartered  immunities,  held  under  a  British  King, 
set  before  them  the  glorious  object  of  entire  independ- 
ence, and  it  will  breathe  into  them  anew  the  breath  of 
life.  Read  this  Declaration  at  the  head  of  the  army ; 
every  sword  will  be  drawn  from  its  scabbard,  and  the 
solemn  vow  uttered,  to  maintain  it,  or  to  perish  on  the 
bed  of  honour.  Publish  it  from  the  pulpit ;  religion 
will  approve  it,  and  the  love  of  religious  liberty  will 
cling  round  it,  resolved  to  stand  with  it,  or  foil  with  it. 
Send  it  to  the  public  halls  ;  proclaim  it  there  ;  let  them 
hear  it  who  heard  the  first  roar  of  the  enemy's  cannon  ; 
let  them  see  it  who  saw  their  brothers  and  their  sons 
fall  on  the  field  of  Bunker  Hill,  and  in  the  streets  of 
Lexington  and  Concord,  and  the  very  walls  will  cry 
out  in  its  support. 

Sir,  I  know  the  uncertainty  of  human  affairs,  but  I 
see,  I  see  clearly,  through  this  day's  business.  You  and 
I  indeed  may  rue  it.  We  may  not  live  to  the  time 
when  this  Declaration  shall  be  made  good.  We  may 
die ;  die,  colonists ;  die,  slaves ;  die,  it  may  be,  igno- 
miniously  and  on  the  scaffold.  Be  it  so  ;  be  it  so  !  If 
it  be  the  pleasure  of  Heaven  that  ray  country  shall 
require  the  poor  offering  of  my  life,  the  victim  shall  be 
ready  at  the  appointed  hour  of  sacrifice,  come  when  that 
hour  may.  But,  while  I  do  live,  let  me  have  a  country, 
or  at  least  the  hope  of  a  country,  and  that  a  free  coun- 
try. 

But,  whatever  may  be  our  fate,  be  assured,  be 
assured,  that  this  Declaration  will  stand.  It  may  cost 
treasure,  and  it  may  cost  blood ;  but  it  will  stand,  and 
it  will  richly  compensate  for  bothc     Through  the  thick 


COMPOSED    AT    CORA    LINN.  249 

gloom  of  the  present,  I  see  the  brightness  of  the  future, 
as  the  Sun  in  heaven.  We  shall  make  this  a  glorious, 
an  immortal  day.  When  we  are  in  our  graves,  our 
children  will  honour  it.  They  will  celebrate  it  with 
thanksgiving,  with  festivity,  with  bonfires,  and  illumi- 
nations. On  its  annual  return  they  will  shed  tears, 
copious,  gushing  tears,  not  of  subjection  and  slavery, 
not  of  agony  and  distress,  but  of  exultation,  of  gratitude, 
and  of  joy.  Sir,  before  God,  I  believe  the  hour  is 
come.  My  judgment  approves  this  measure,  and  my 
whole  heart  is  in  it.  All  that  I  have,  and  all  that  1 
am,  and  all  that  I  hope,  in  this  life,  I  am  now  ready 
here  to  stake  upon  it :  and  I  leave  off,  as  I  began,  that, 
live  or  die,  survive  or  perish,  I  am  for  the  Declaration. 
It  is  my  living  sentiment,  and  by  the  blessing  of  God 
it  shall  be  my  dying  sentiment,  Independence  now^  and 

INDEPENDENCE  FOR  EVER. 

COMPOSED  AT  OOEA  LIO,* 

In  Sight  of  Wallace's  Tower. 

Lord  of  the  vale  !  astounding  Flood; 
The  dullest  leaf  in  this  thick  wood 
Quakes,  conscious  of  thy  power ; 
The  caves  reply  with  lioUow  moan ; 
And  vibrates,  to  its  central  stone, 
Yon  time-cemented  Tower ! 

And  yet  how  fair  the  rural  scene  ! 
For  thou,  O  Clyde,  hast  ever  been 
Beneficent  as  strong ; 
Pleased  in  refreshing  dews  to  steep 
The  little  trembling  flowers  that  peep 
Thy  shelving  rocks  among. 
*  Linn  is  Scottish  for  waterfall  or  ca&cade. 


250  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Hence  all  who  love  their  country,  love 
To  look  on  thee,  —  delight  to  rove 
Where  they  thy  voice  can  hear ; 
And,  to  the  patriot-warrior's  Shade, 
Lord  of  tlie  vale  !  to  Heroes  laid 
In  dust,  that  voice  is  dear ! 

Along  thy  banks,  at  dead  of  night, 
Sweeps  visibly  the  Wallace  Wight ; 
Or  stands,  in  warlike  vest, 
Aloft,  beneath  the  Moon's  pale  beam^ 
A  Champion  wortliy  of  the  stream, 
Yon  gray  tower's  living  crest ! 

But  clouds  and  envious  darkness  hide 
A  Form  not  doubtfully  descried  : 
Their  transient  mission  o'er, 
O,  say  to  what  blind  region  flee 
These  Shapes  of  awful  phantasy  ? 
To  what  untrodden  shore  ? 

Less  than  divine  command  the}'  spurn : 
But  this  we  from  the  mountains  learn, 
And  this  the  valleys  show, — 
That  never  will  they  deign  to  hold 
Communion  where  the  heart  is  cold 
To  human  weal  and  woe. 

The  man  of  abject  soul  in  vain 
Shall  walk  the  Marathonian  plain ; 
Or  thrid  the  shadowy  gloom, 
That  still  invests  the  guardian  Pass 
Where  stood,  sublime,  Leonidas 
Devoted  to  the  tomb. 

Nor  deem  that  it  can  aught  avail 
For  such  to  glide  with  oar  or  sail 
Beneath  the  piny  wood. 


PATKIOTISM.  251 


Where  Tell  once  drew,  by  Uri's  lake, 
His  vengeful  shafts,  —  prepared  to  slake 
Their  thirst  in  tyrant's  blood. 

PATKIOTISM. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 

Breathes  there  the  man,  with  soul  so  dead, 
Who  never  to  himself  hath  said. 

This  is  my  own,  my  native  land  ! 
Whose  heart  hath  ne'er  within  him  burn'd, 

As  home  his  footsteps  he  hath  tnrn'd, 
From  wandering  on  a  foreign  strand ! 

If  such  there  breathe,  go,  mark  him  well : 

For  him  no  minstrel  raptures  swell ; 

High  though  his  titles,  proud  his  name, 

Boundless  his  wealth  as  wish  can  claim ; 

Despite  those  titles,  power,  and  pelf, 

The  wretch,  concentred  all  in  self, 

Living,  shall  forfeit  fair  renown. 

And, "doubly  dying,  shall  go  down 

To  the  vile  dust,  from  whence  he  sprung, 

Unwept,  unhonour'd,  and  unsung. 

O  Caledonia  !  stern  and  wild. 

Meet  nurse  for  a  poetic  child ! 

Land  of  brown  heath  and  shaggy  wood, 

Land  of  the  mountain  and  the  flood, 

Land  of  my  sires  !  what  mortal  hand 

Can  e'er  untie  the  filial  band. 

That  knits  me  to  thy  rugged  strand ! 

Still,  as  I  view  each  well-known  scene, 

Think  what  is  now,  and  what  hath  been, 

Seems  as,  to  me,  of  all  bereft. 

Sole  friends  thy  woods  and  streams  were  left ; 

And  thus  I  love  them  better  still. 

Even  in  extremity  of  ill. 


252  CHOICE    READINGS. 

By  Yarrow's  stream  still  let  me  stray, 
Though  none  should  guide  m}-  feeble  way; 
Still  feel  the  breeze  down  Ettrick  break, 
Although  it  chill  m^'  wither'd  cheek  ; 
Still  lay  my  head  b}'  Teviot  stone, 
Though  there,  forgotten  and  alone, 
The  Bard  may  draw  his  parting  groan. 


PAUL  EEVEEE'S   EIDE. 

H.  W.  Longfellow. 

Listen,  my  children,  and  you  shall  hear 

Of  the  midnight  ride  of  Paul  Revere, 

On  the  eighteenth  of  April,  in  Seventy-Five: 

Hardly  a  man  is  now  alive 

Who  remembers  that  famous  day  and  year. 

He  said  to  his  friend,  —  "If  the  British  march 
By  land  or  sea  from  the  town  to-night, 
Hang  a  lantern  aloft  in  the  belfry-arch 
Of  the  North-Church  tower,  as  a  signal-light,  — 
One  if  by  land,  and  two  if  by  sea  ; 
And  I  on  the  opposite  shore  will  be, 
Ready  to  ride  and  spread  the  alarm 
Through  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm, 
For  the  country-folk  to  be  up  and  to  arm." 

Then  he  said  good-night,  and  with  muffled  oar 

Silentl}'  row'd  to  the  Charlestown  shore, 

Just  as  the  Moon  rose  over  the  ba}'. 

Where  swinging  wide  at  her  moorings  lay 

The  Somerset,  British  man-of-war  : 

A  phantom  ship,  with  each  mast  and  spar 

Across  the  Moon,  like  a  prison-bar. 

And  a  huge,  black  hulk,  that  was  magnified 

By  its  own  reflection  in  the  tide. 


PAUL  revere's  ride.  253 

Meanwhile  his  friend,  through  alley  and  street 
Wanders  and  watches  with  eager  ears, 
Till  in  the  silence  around  liim  he  hears 
The  muster  of  men  at  tlie  barrack-door, 
The  sound  of  arms,  and  the  tramp  of  feet, 
And  the  measured  tread  of  the  grenadiers 
Marching  down  to  their  boats  on  the  shore. 

Then  he  climb'd  to  the  tower  of  the  church, 
Up  the  wooden  stairs,  with  stealth}'  tread. 
To  the  belfiy-chamber  overhead, 
And  startled  the  pigeons  from  their  perch 
On  the  sombre  rafters,  that  round  him  made 
Masses  and  moving  shapes  of  shade  ; 
Up  the  light  ladder,  slender  and  tall, 
To  the  highest  window  in  the  wall. 
Where  he  paused  to  listen  and  look  down 
A  moment  on  the  roofs  of  the  quiet  town, 
And  the  moonlight  flowing  over  all. 

Beneath,  in  the  church-jard.  lay  the  dead 
In  their  night-encampment  on  the  hill, 
Wrapp'd  in  silence  so  deep  and  still. 
That  he  could  hear,  like  a  sentinel's  tread, 
The  watchful  night-wind  as  it  went 
Creeping  along  from  tent  to  tent, 
And  seeming  to  whisper,  "  All  is  well !  " 
A  moment  onlj*  he  feels  the  spell 
Of  the  place  and  the  hour,  the  secret  dread 
Of  the  lonely  belfry  and  the  dead  ; 
For  suddenly  all  his  thoughts  are  bent 
On  a  shadowy  something  far  away, 
Where  the  river  widens  to  meet  the  bay,  — 
A  line  of  black,  that  bends  and  floats 
On  the  rising  tide,  like  a  bridge  of  boats. 

Meanwhile,  impatient  to  mount  and  ride, 
Booted  and  spurr'd,  with  a  heavy  stride, 


254  CHOICE    READINGS. 

On  the  opposite  shore  walk'd  Paul  Revere. 
Now  he  patted  his  horse's  side, 
Now  gazed  on  the  landscape  far  and  near, 
Then  impetuous  stamp'd  the  earth, 
And  turu'd  and  tighten'd  his  saddle-girth ; 
But  mostly  he  watch'd  with  eager  search 
The  belfty-tower  of  the  old  North  Church, 
As  it  rose  above  the  graves  on  the  hill, 
Lonel}',  and  spectral,  and  sombre,  and  still. 

And,  lo !  as  he  looks,  on  the  belfry's  height, 
A  glimmer,  and  then  a  gleam  of  light ! 
He  springs  to  the  saddle,  the  bridle  he  turns, 
But  lingers  and  gazes,  till  full  on  his  sight 
A  second  lamp  in  the  belfry  burns ! 

A  hurry  of  hoofs  in  a  village-street, 

A  shape  in  the  moonlight,  a  bulk  in  the  dark. 

And  beneath  from  the  pebbles,  in  passing,  a  spark 

Struck  out  by  a  steed  that  flies  fearless  and  fleet : 

That  was  all !  And  yet,  through  the  gloom  and  the  light, 

The  fate  of  u  nation  was  riding  that  night ; 

And  the  spark  struck  out  by  that  steed,  in  his  flight. 

Kindled  the  land  into  flame  with  its  heat. 

It  was  twelve  by  the  village-clock. 

When  he  cross'd  the  bridge  into  Medford  town, 

He  heard  the  crowing  of  the  cock. 

And  the  barking  of  the  farmer's  dog. 

And  felt  the  damp  of  the  river-fog, 

That  rises  when  the  Sun  goes  down. 

It  was  one  by  the  village-clock, 

When  he  rode  into  Lexington. 

He  saw  the  gilded  weathercock 

Swim  in  the  moonlight  as  he  pass'd. 

And  the  meeting-house  windows,  blank  and  bare. 

Gaze  at  him  with  a  spectral  glare. 


PAUL    REVERE 'S   RICE.  255 

As  if  they  already  stood  aghast 

At  the  bloody  work  they  would  look  upon. 

It  was  two  b}'  the  village  clock, 

Wheu  he  came  to  the  bridge  in  Concord  town. 

He  heard  the  bleating  of  the  flock, 

And  the  twitter  of  birds  among  the  trees, 

And  felt  the  breath  of  the  morning-breeze 

Blowing  over  the  meadows  brown. 

And  one  was  safe  and  asleep  in  his  bed 

Who  at  the  bridge  would  l)e  first  to  fall, 

Who  that  da}'  would  be  lying  dead. 

Pierced  by  a  British  mnsket-ball. 

You  know  the  I'est.     In  the  books  you  have  read 
How  the  British  regulars  fired  and  fled  ; 
How  the  farmers  gave  them  ball  for  ball, 
From  behind  each  fence  and  farmyard-wall, 
Chasing  the  red-coats  down  the  lane, 
Then  crossing  the  fields  to  cmei'ge  again 
Under  the  trees  at  the  turn  of  the  road. 
And  only  pausing  to  fire  and  load. 

So  through  the  night  rode  Paul  Revere ; 

And  so  through  the  night  went  his  cr}'  of  alarm 

To  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm,  — 

A  cry  of  defiance,  and  not  of  fear,  — 

A  voice  in  the  darkness,  a  knock  at  the  door, 

And  a  word  that  shall  echo  for  evermore  ! 

For,  borne  on  the  night-wind  of  the  Past, 

Through  all  our  history,  to  the  last, 

In  the  hour  of  darkness,  and  peril,  and  need. 

The  people  will  waken  and  listen  to  hear 

The  hurrying  hoof-beat  of  that  steed. 

And  the  midnight-message  of  Paul  Revere. 


256  CHOICE    READINGS. 

HORATIUS  AT  THE  BKIDGE. 

Lord  Macaulay. 

Now  the  Consul's  brow  was  sad, 

And  the  Consul's  speech  was  low, 
And  darkly  look'd  he  at  the  wall, 

And  darkly  at  the  foe  : 
"  Their  van  will  l)e  upon  us 

Before  the  bridge  goes  down  ; 
And,  if  they  once  may  win  the  bridge 

What  hope  to  save  the  town  ?  " 

Then  outspake  brave  Horatius, 

The  captain  of  the  gate  : 
"  To  ever}'  man  upon  this  Earth 

Death  cometh  soon  or  late. 
And  how  can  man  die  better 

Than  facing  fearful  odds 
For  the  ashes  of  his  fathers 

And  the  temples  of  his  gods  ? 

Hew  down  the  bridge,  Sir  Consul, 

With  all  the  speed  ye  may ; 
I,  with  two  more  to  help  me, 

Will  hold  the  foe  in  pla}',  — 
In  yon  strait  path  a  thousand 

May  well  be  stopp'd  by  three. 
Now  who  will  stand  on  either  hand, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  me  ?  " 

Then  outspake  Spurius  Lartius,  — 

A  Ramnian  proud  was  he  : 
"  Lo,  I  will  stand  at  thy  right  hand, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee." 
And  outspake  strong  Herminius,  — 

Of  Titian  blood  was  he  : 
*'  I  will  abide  on  thy  left  side, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee," 


HORATIUS    AT   THE    BRIDGE.  2o7 

^'Horatius,"  quoth  the  Consul, 

"  As  thou  say'st,  so  let  it  be." 
And  straight  against  that  great  array 

Forth  went  the  dauntless  Three. 
Now,  while  the  Three  were  tightening 

Their  harness  on  their  l>acks, 
The  Consul  was  the  foremost  man 

To  take  in  hand  an  axe  ; 
And  Fathers  mix'd  with  Commons 

Seized  hatchet,  bar,  and  crow. 
And  smote  upon  the  planks  above, 

And  loosed  the  props  below. 

Meanwhile  the  Tuscan  army, 

Right  glorious  to  behold. 
Came  flashing  back  the  noonday  light, 
Rank  behind  rank,  like  surges  bright 

Of  a  broad  sea  of  gold. 
Four  hundred  trumpets  sounded 

A  peal  of  warlike  glee. 
As  that  great  host,  with  measured  tread, 
And  spears  advanced,  and  ensigns  spread, 
Roll'd  slowly  towards  the  bridge's  head, 

Where  stood  the  dauntless  Three. 

But  now  no  sound  of  laughter 

Was  heard  amongst  the  foes. 
A  wild  and  wrathful  clamour 

From  all  the  vanguard  rose. 
Six  spears'  lengths  from  the  entrance 

Halted  that  mighty  mass, 
And  for  a  space  no  man  came  forth 

To  win  the  narrow  pass. 

But,  hark  !  the  cry  is  Astur : 

And,  lo  !  the  ranks  divide  ; 
And  the  great  lord  of  Luna 

Comes  with  his  stately  stride. 


258  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Quoth  he,  "  Tlie  she- wolf  s  litter 

Stand  savagely  at  bay  ; 
But  will  ye  dare  to  follow, 

If  Astur  clears  the  way  ?  " 

Then,  whirling  up  his  broadsword 

With  both  hands  to  the  height, 
He  rush'd  against  Horatius, 

And  smote  with  all  his  might. 
With  shield  and  blade  Horatius 

Right  deftly  turn'd  the  blow  ; 
The  blow,  though  turn'd,  came  yet  too  nigh  ; 
It  miss'd  his  helm,  but  gash'd  his  thigh. 
The  Tuscans  raised  a  joj'ful  cry 

To  see  the  red  blood  flow. 

He  reel'd,  and  on  Herminius 

He  lean'd  one  breathing-space, 
Then,  like  a  wild-cat  mad  with  wounds, 

Sprang  right  at  Astur's  face. 
Through  teeth  and  skull  and  helmet 

So  fierce  a  thrust  he  sped, 
The  good  sword  stood  a  handbreadth  out 

Behind  the  Tuscan's  head. 

But  meanwhile  axe  and  lever 

Have  manfull}'  been  plied. 
And  now  the  bridge  hangs  tottering 

Above  the  boiling  tide. 
"  Come  back,  come  back,  Horatius  I  " 

Loud  cried  the  Fathers  all ; 
"  Back,  Lartius  !  back,  Herminius  ! 

Back,  ere  the  ruin  fall !  " 

Back  darted  Spurius  Lartius  ; 

Herminius  darted  back  ; 
And,  as  they  pass'd,  beneath  their  feet 

They  felt  the  timbers  crack ; 


HORATIUS    AT   THE    BRIDGE. 

But,  when  they  tuni'd  their  faces, 

And  on  the  farther  shore 
Saw  brave  Horatius  stand  alone, 

They  would  have  cross' d  once  more. 
But,  with  a  crash  like  thunder, 

Fell  every  loosen'd  beam. 
And,  like  a  dam,  the  mighty  wreck 

Lay  right  athwart  the  stream  ; 
And  a  long  shout  of  triumph 

Rose  from  the  walls  of  Rome, 
As  to  the  highest  turret-tops 

Was  splash'd  the  yellow  foam. 

Alone  stood  brave  Horatius, 

But  constant  still  in  mind,  — 
Thrice  thirty  thousand  foes  before, 

And  the  broad  flood  behind. 
"  Down  with  him  !  "  cried  false  Sextus, 

With  a  smile  on  his  pale  face ; 
"  Now  yield  thee,"  cried  Lars  Porsena, 

"  Now  yield  thee  to  our  grace  1 " 

Round  turn'd  he,  as  not  deigning 

Those  craven  ranks  to  see ; 
Nought  spake  he  to  Lars  Porsena, 

To  Sextus  nought  spake  he  ; 
But  he  saw  on  Palatinus 

The  white  porch  of  his  home ; 
And  he  spake  to  the  noble  river 

That  rolls  by  the  towers  of  Rome : 

"  O  Tiber !  Father  Tiber  ! 

To  whom  the  Romans  pray, 
A  Roman's  life,  a  Roman's  arms,^^ 

Take  thou  in  charge  this  day  ! " 
So  he  spake,  and,  speaking,  sheathed 

The  good  sword  by  his  side. 


259 


260  CHOICE    HEADINGS. 

And,  with  his  harness  on  his  back, 
Pkinged  headlong  in  the  tide. 

No  sonnd  of  jo}'  or  sorrow 

Was  heard  from  either  bank, 
Bnt  friends  and  foes  in  dnmb  surprise. 
With  parted  lips  and  straining  e3es, 

Stood  gazing  where  he  sank  ; 
And,  when  above  the  surges 

They  saw  his  crest  appear. 
All  Rome  sent  forth  a  rapturous  cry, 
And  even  the  ranks  of  Tuscany 

Could  scarce  forbear  to  cheer. 

But  fiercely  ran  the  current,  • 

Swoll'n  high  by  months  of  rain, 
And  fast  his  blood  was  flowing  ; 

And  he  was  sore  in  pain. 
And  heavy  with  his  armour, 

And  spent  with  changing  blows  ; 
And  oft  they  thought  him  sinking, 

But  still  again  he  rose. 

And  now  he  feels  the  bottom  ;  — 

Now  on  dry  earth  he  stands  : 
Now  round  him  throng  the  Fathers 

To  press  his  gory  hands. 
And,  now  with  shouts  and  clapping, 

And  noise  of  weeping  loud, 
He  enters  through  the  River  Gate, 

Borne  by  the  joyous  crowd. 

»o>»ioo 

WALPOLE'S   ATTACK   ON  PITT. 

I  WAS  unwilling  to  interrupt  the  course  of  tliis  debate 
while  it  was  carried  on,  with  calmness  and  decenc3%  by 
men  who  do  not  suffer  the  ardour  of  opposition  to  cloud 


WALPOLe's  attack  on  PITT.  261 

their  reason  or  transport  tliera  to  such  expressions  as 
the  dignity  of  this  assembly  does  not  admit.  I  have  hith- 
erto deferred  answering  the  gentleman  who  declaimed 
against  the  bill  with  such  fluency  of  rhetoric  and  such 
vehemence  of  gesture ;  who  charged  the  advocates  for 
the  expedients  now  proposed  with  having  no  regard  to 
any  interests  but  their  own,  and  with  making  laws  only 
to  consume  paper,  and  threatened  them  Avith  the  defec- 
tion of  their  adherents,  and  the  loss  of  their  influence, 
upon  this  new  discovery  of  their  folly  and  ignorance. 
Nor  do  I  now  answer  him  for  any  other  purpose  than 
to  remind  him  how  little  the  clamours  of  rage  and  the 
petulancy  of  invective  contribute  to  the  end  for  which 
this  assembly  is  called  together ;  how  little  the  dis- 
covery of  truth  is  promoted,  and  the  security  of  the 
nation  established  by  pompous  diction  and  theatrical 
emotion.  Formidable  sounds  and  furious  declama- 
tion, confident  assertions  and  lofty  periods,  may  affect 
the  young  and  inexperienced;  and  perhaps  the  gentle- 
man may  have  contracted  his  habits  of  oratory  by  con- 
versing more  with  those  of  his  own  age  than  with  such 
as  have  more  opportunities  of  acquiring  knowledge,  and 
more  successful  methods  of  communicating  their  senti- 
ments. If  the  heat  of  his  temper  would  permit  him  to 
attend  to  those  whose  age  and  long  acquaintance  with 
business  give  thera  an  indisputable  right  to  deference 
and  superiority,  he  would  learn,  in  time,  to  reason 
rather  than  declaim,  and  to  prefer  justness  of  argument, 
and  an  accurate  knowledge  of  facts,  to  sounding  epi- 
thets and  splendid  sui)erlatives,  which  may  disturb  the 
imagination  for  a  moment,  but  leave  no  lasting  impres- 
sion on  the  mind.  He  will  learn  that  to  accuse  and 
prove  are  very  different ;  and  that  reproaches,  unsup- 
ported by  evidence,  affect  only  the  character  of  him  that 


262  CHOICE    READINGS. 

utters  them.  Excursions  of  fancy  and  flights  of  oratory 
are,  indeed,  pardonable  in  young  men,  but  in  no  other ; 
and  it  would  surely  contribute  more,  even  to  the  pur- 
pose for  which  some  gentlemen  appear  to  speak,  (that 
of  depreciating  the  conduct  of  the  administration,)  to 
prove  the  inconveniences  and  injustice  of  this  bill,  than 
barely  to  assert  them,  with  whatever  magnificence  of 
language  or  appearance  of  zeal,  honesty,  or  compas- 
sion. 

PITT'S   EEPLY   TO   WALPOLE. 

Sir,  —  The  atrocious  crime  of  being  a  young  man, 
which  the  honourable  gentleman  has,  with  such  spirit 
and  decency,  charged  upon  me,  I  shall  neither  attempt 
to  palliate  nor  deny;  but  content  myself  with  wishing 
that  I  may  be  one  of  those  whose  follies  may  cease  with 
their  youth,  and  not  of  that  number  who  are  ignorant 
in  spite  of  experience.  Whether  youth  can  be  imputed 
to  any  man  as  a  reproach,  I  will  not,  sir,  assume  the 
province  of  determining;  but  surely  age  may  become 
justly  contemptible,  if  the  opportunities  which  it  brings 
have  passed  away  without  improvement,  and  vice  ap- 
pears to  prevail  when  the  passions  have  subsided. 

The  wretch  who,  after  having  seen  the  consequences 
of  a  thousand  errors,  continues  still  to  blunder,  and 
whose  age  has  only  added  obstinacy  to  stupidity,  is 
surely  the  object  either  of  abhorrence  or  contempt,  and 
deserves  not  that  his  gray  hairs  should  secure  him  from 
insult.  Much  more,  Sir,  is  he  to  be  abhorred  who,  as 
he  has  advanced  in  age,  has  receded  from  virtue,  and 
become  more  wicked  with  less  temptation ;  who  prosti- 
tutes himself  for  money  which  he  cannot  enjoy,  and 
spends  the  remains  of  his  life  in  the  ruin  of  his  coun- 
try. 


Pitt's  reply  to  walpole.  263 

But  youth,  Sir,  is  not  my  only  crime ;  I  liave  been 
accused  of  acting  a  theatrical  part.  A  theatrical  part 
may  either  imply  some  peculiarities  of  gesture,  or  a  dis- 
simulation of  my  real  sentiments,  and  an  adoption  of 
the  opinions  and  language  of  another  man. 

In  the  first  sense.  Sir,  the  charge  is  too  trilling  to  be 
confuted,  and  deserves  only  to  be  mentioned,  that  it 
may  be  despised.  I  am  at  liberty,  like  every  other 
man,  to  use  my  own  language  ;  and,  though  perhaj^s  I 
may  have  some  ambition  to  please  this  gentleman,  I 
shall  not  lay  myself  under  any  restraint,  nor  very  solicit- 
ously copy  his  diction  or  his  mien,  however  matured 
by  age  or  modelled  by  experience. 

But  if  any  man  shall,  by  charging  me  with  theatrical 
behaviour  imply  that  I  utter  any  sentiments  but  ni}'- 
own,  I  shall  treat  him  as  a  calumniator  and  a  villain  ; 
nor  shall  any  protection  shelter  him  from  the  treatment 
he  deserves.  I  shall,  on  such  an  occasion,  without 
scruple,  trample  upon  all  those  forms  with  which  wealth 
and  dignity  intrench  themselves;  nor  shall  anything 
but  age  restrain  my  resentment,  —  age,  which  always 
brings  one  privilege,  that  of  being  insolent  and  super- 
cilious, without  punishment. 

But  with  regard,  Sir,  to  those  whom  I  have  offended, 
I  am  of  opinion  that,  if  I  had  acted  a  borrowed  part,  I 
should  have  avoided  their  censure ;  the  heat  that 
offended  them  is  the  ardour  of  conviction,  and  that 
zeal  for  the  service  of  my  country  which  neither  hope 
nor  fear  shall  influence  me  to  suppress.  I  will  not  sit 
unconcerned  while  my  liberty  is  invaded,  nor  look  in 
silence  upon  public  rol)bery.  I  will  exert  my  endeav- 
ours, at  whatever  hazard,  to  repel  the  aggressor,  and 
drag  the  thief  to  justice,  whoever  may  protect  him  in 
his  villainy,  and  whoever  may  partake  of  his  plunder. 


264  CHOICE    READINGS. 

OUR  DUTIES   TO   THE  EEPUBLIO. 

Judge  Story. 

The  Old  World  has  already  revealed  to  us,  in  its 
unsealed  books,  the  beginning  and  end  of  all  its  own 
marvellous  struggles  in  the  cause  of  liberty.  Greece, 
lovely  Greece,  "  the  land  of  scholars  and  the  nurse  of 
arms,"  where  sister  republics,  in  fair  procession,  chanted 
the  praises  of  liberty  and  the  gods,  —  where  and  what 
is  she  ?  For  two  thousand  years  the  oppressor  has 
ground  her  to  the  earth.  Her  arts  are  no  more.  The 
last  sad  relics  of  her  temples  are  but  the  barracks  of  a 
ruthless  soldiery.  The  fragments  of  her  columns  and 
her  palaces  are  in  the  dust,  yet  beautiful  in  ruins.  She 
fell  not  when  the  mighty  were  upon  her.  Her  sons 
were  united  at  Thermopylte  and  Marathon  ;  and  the  tide 
of  her  triumph  rolled  back  upon  the  Hellespont.  She 
was  conquered  by  her  own  factions.  She  fell  by  the 
hands  of  her  own  people.  The  man  of  Macedonia  did 
not  the  work  of  destruction.  It  was  already  done  by 
her  own  corruptions,  banishments,  and  dissensions. 

Rome,  republican  Rome,  whose  eagles  glanced  in  the 
rising  and  setting  Sun,  —  Avhere  and  what  is  she?  The 
eternal  city  yet  remains,  proud  even  in  her  desolation, 
noble  in  lier  decline,  venerable  in  the  majesty  of  re- 
ligion, and  calm  as  in  the  composure  of  death.  The 
malaria  has  but  travelled  in  the  paths  worn  by  her 
destroyers.  More  than  eighteen  centuries  have  mourned 
over  the  loss  of  her  empire.  A  mortal  disease  was  upon 
her  vitals  before  Caesar  crossed  the  Rubicon ;  and  Bru- 
tus did  not  restore  her  health  by  the  deep  probings  of 
the  Senate-chamber.  The  Goths  and  Vandals  and 
Huns,  the  swarms  of  the  North,  completed  only  what 
was  already  begun  at  home.     Romans  betrayed  Rome, 


OUR    DUTIES    TO    THE    KEPUBLIC.  2G5 

The    legions  were    bought  and   sold  ;  but   the    people 
offered  the  tribute  money. 

We  stand  the  latest,  —  and,  if  we  fail,  probably  the 
last,  —  experiment  of  self-government  by  the  people. 
We  have  begun  it  under  circumstances  of  the  most 
auspicious  nature.  We  are  in  the  vigour  of  youth. 
Our  growth  has  never  been  checked  by  the  oppressions 
of  tyranny.  Our  constitutions  have  never  been  en- 
feebled by  the  vices  or  luxuries  of  the  old  world.  Such 
as  we  are,  we  have  been  from  the  beginning,  —  simple, 
hardy,  intelligent,  accustomed  to  self-government  and 
to  self-respect.  The  Atlantic  rolls  between  us  and  any 
formidable  foe.  Within  our  own  territory,  stretching 
through  many  degrees  of  latitude  and  longitude,  we 
have  the  choice  of  many  products  and  many  means  of 
independence.  The  government  is  mild.  The  Press  is 
free.  Religion  is  free.  Knowledge  reaches  or  may 
reach  every  home.  What  fairer  prospect  of  success 
could  be  presented?  What  means  more  adequate  to 
accomplish  the  sublime  end?  What  more  is  necessary 
than  for  the  people  to  preserve  what  they  have  them- 
selves created?  Already  has  the  age  caught  the  spirit 
of  our  institutions.  It  has  already  ascended  the  Andes, 
and  snuffed  the  breezes  of  both  oceans.  It  has  infused 
itself  into  the  life-blood  of  Europe,  and  warmed  the 
sunny  plains  of  France  and  the  k)W  lands  of  Holland. 
It  has  touched  the  philosophy  of  Germany  and  the 
North ;  and,  moving  onward  to  the  South,  has  opened 
to  Greece  the  lessons  of  her  better  days.  Can  it  be 
that  America,  under  such  circumstances,  can  betray 
herself?  Can  it  be  that  slie  is  to  be  added  to  the  cata- 
logue of  republics,  the  inscription  upon  whose  ruins  is: 
"They  were,  but  they  are  not"?  Forbid  it,  my 
countrymen !     Forbid  it.  Heaven ! 


266  CHOICE    READINGS. 

LIBEETY  AND  UNION. 

Daniel  Webster. 

I  PROFESS,  Sir,  in  my  career  hitherto,  to  have  kept 
steadily  in  view  the  prosperity  and  honour  of  the  whole 
country,  and  the  preservation  of  our  Federal  Union.  It 
is  to  that  Union  we  owe  our  safety  at  home,  and  our 
consideration  and  dignity  abroad.  It  is  to  that  Union 
that  we  are  chiefly  indebted  for  whatever  makes  us 
most  proud  of  our  country.  That  Union  we  reached 
only  by  the  discipline  of  our  virtues  in  the  severe  school 
of  adversity.  It  had  its  origin  in  the  necessities  of  dis- 
ordered finance,  prostrate  commerce,  and  ruined  credit. 
Under  its  benign  influences,  these  great  interests  imme- 
diately awoke,  as  from  the  dead,  and  sprang  forth  with 
newness  of  life.  Every  year  of  its  duration  has  teemed 
with  fresh  proofs  of  its  utility  and  its  blessings ;  and, 
although  our  territory  has  stretched  out  wider  and  wider, 
and  our  population  spread  further  and  further,  they 
have  not  outrun  its  protection  or  its  benefits.  It  has 
been  to  us  all  a  copious  fountain  of  national,  social,  and 
personal  happiness. 

I  have  not  allowed  myself.  Sir,  to  look  beyond  the 
Union,  to  see  what  might  lie  hidden  in  the  dark  recess 
behind.  I  have  not  coolly  weighed  the  chances  of  pre- 
serving liberty  when  the  bonds  that  unite  us  together 
shall  be  broken  asunder.  I  have  not  accustomed  my- 
self to  liang  over  the  precipice  of  disunion,  to  see 
wliether,  with  my  short  sight,  I  can  fathom  the  depth 
of  the  abyss  below ;  nor  could  I  regard  him  as  a  Safe 
counsellor  in  the  affairs  of  this  government,  whose 
thoughts  should  be  mainly  bent  on  considering,  not 
how  the  Union  may  be  best  preserved,  bul  how  tolera- 
ble might  be  the  condition  of  the  people  when  it  shall 
be  broken  up  and  destroyed. 


INDEPENDENCE    BELL.  2G7 

While  the  Union  lasts,  we  have  high,  exciting,  grati- 
fying prospects  spread  out  before  us,  for  us  and  our 
children.  Beyond  that  I  seek  not  to  penetrate  the  veil. 
God  grant  that,  in  my  day  at  least,  that  curtain  may 
not  rise  !  God  grant  that  on  my  vision  never  may  be 
opened  what  lies  behind !  When  my  eyes  shall  be 
turned  to  behold,  for  the  last  time,  the  Sun  in  heaven, 
may  I  not  see  him  shining  on  the  broken  and  dishon- 
oured fragments  of  a  once  glorious  Union;  on  States 
dissevered,  discordant,  belligerent ;  on  a  land  rent  with 
civil  feuds,  or  drenched,  it  may  be,  in  fraternal  blood ! 
Let  their  last  feeble  and  lingering  glance  ratlier  behold 
the  gorgeous  ensign  of  the  republic,  now  known  and 
honoured  throughout  the  Earth,  still  full  high  advanced, 
its  arms  and  trophies  streaming  in  their  original  lustre, 
not  a  strips  erased  or  polluted,  nor  a  single  star  ob- 
scured ;  bearing  for  its  motto,  no  such  miserable  inter- 
rogatory as,  "  What  is  all  this  worth  ?  "  nor  those  other 
words  of  delusion  and  folly,  "  Liberty  first,  and  Union 
afterwards  " ;  but  everywhere,  spread  all  over  in  char- 
acters of  living  light,  blazing  on  all  its  ample  folds,  as 
they  float  over  the  sea  and  over  the  land,  and  in  every 
wind  under  the  whole  heavens,  that  other  sentiment, 
dear  to  every  true  American  heart,  —  Liberty  and 
Union,  now  and  for  ever,  one  and  inseparable  ! 


INDEPENDENCE  BELL.  —  JULY  4,  1770. 

[When  the  Declaration  of  Independence  was  adopted  by  Congress,  the 
event  was  announced  by  ringing  the  old  State-House  bell,  which  bore  the 
inscription  "  Proclaim  liberty  throughout  the  land,  to  all  the  inhabitants 
thereof!  "  The  old  bellman  stationed  his  little  grandson  at  the  door  of  the 
hall,  to  await  the  instructions  of  the  door-keeper  when  to  ring.  At  the 
word,  the  young  patriot  rushed  out,  and  clapping  his  hands,  shouted:  — 
"  Pdny  !  Ring  !  RING  !  "] 


268  CHOICE    HEADINGS. 

There  was  a  tumult  in  the  city, 

In  the  quaint  old  Quaker  town, 
And  the  streets  were  rife  with  people 

Pacing  restless  up  and  down,  — 
People  gathering  at  the  corners, 

Where  they  whisper'd  each  to  each, 
And  the  sweat  stood  on  their  temples 

With  the  earnestness  of  speech. 

As  the  bleak  Atlantic  currents 

I/ash  the  wild  Newfoundland  shore. 
So  they  beat  against  the  State-House, 

So  they  surged  against  the  door ; 
And  the  mingling  of  their  voices 

Made  a  harmony  profound, 
Till  the  quiet  street  of  Chestnut 

Was  all  turbulent  with  sound. 

"  Will  they  do  it?  "     "  Dare  they  do  it?  " 

"  Who  is  speaking?  "      "  Wh»t's  the  news? 
' '  What  of  Adams  ?  "     "  What  of  Sherman  ?  " 

"  O,  God  grant  they  won't  refuse  !  " 
"  Make  some  wa}"  there  !  "     "  Let  me  nearer  ! 

"  I  am  stifling  !  "     "  Stifle,  then  ! 
When  a  nation's  life's  at  hazard. 

We've  no  time  to  think  of  men  !  " 

So  they  surged  against  the  State-House- 
While  all  solemnly  inside 

►Sat  tlu!  Continental  Congress, 

Truth  and  reason  for  their  guide. 

O'er  a  simple  scroll  debating, 

Which,  though  simple  it  might  be, 

Yet  should  shake  the  cliffs  of  England 
With  the  thunders  of  the  free. 

Far  aloft  in  that  high  steeple 
Sat  the  bellman,  old  and  gray; 


INDEPENDENCE    BELL.  269 

He  was  weary  of  the  tyrant 

And  his  iron-scepter'd  sway, 
So  he  sat,  with  one  hand  ready 

On  the  clapper  of  the  bell, 
When  his  eye  conld  catch  the  signal. 

The  long-expected  news,  to  tell. 

See,  see  !  the  dense  crowd  quivers 

Through  all  its  lengthen'd  line, 
As  the  boy  beside  the  portal 

Hastens  forth  to  give  the  sign  ! 
With  his  little  hands  uplifted, 

Breezes  dallying  with  his  hair, 
Hark  !  with  deep,  clear  intonation, 

Breaks  his  young  voice  on  the  air : 

Hush'd  the  people's  swelling  murmur, 

Whilst  the  boy  cries  joyously  ; 
"  Ring  !  "  he  shouts,  "  Ring  !  grandpapa, 

Ring  !  O,  ring  for  Liberty  !  " 
Quickly,  at  the  given  signal. 

The  old  bellman  lifts  his  hand. 
Forth  he  sends  tlie  good  news,  making 

Iron  music  through  the  laud. 

How  they  shouted  !  AVhat  rejoicing  ! 

How  the  old  bell  shook  the  air, 
Till  the  clang  of  freedom  ruffled 

The  calmly-gliding  Delaware ! 
How  the  bonfires  and  the  torches 

Lighted  up  the  night's  repose. 
And  from  the  flames,  like  fabled  Phcenix, 

Our  glorious  liberty  arose  ! 

That  old  State-House  bell  is  silent, 
Hush'd  is  now  its  clamorous  tongue  ; 

But  the  spirit  it  awaken'd 
Still  is  living,  —  ever  young  ; 


270  CHOICK    HEADINGS. 

And,  when  we  greet  the  smiling  sunlight 
On  the  fourth  of  each  July, 

We  will  ne'er  forget  the  bellman 
Who,  betwixt  the  earth  and  sky, 

Rung  out,  loudly,  "  Independence"  ; 
Which,  please  God,  shall  never  die  ! 


THE  AMEEIOAN  FLAG. 

Joseph  Rodman  Drake. 

When  Freedom,  from  her  mountain  height, 
Unfurl'd  her  standard  to  the  air, 

She  tore  the  azure  robe  of  night, 
And  set  the  stars  of  glory  there  ! 

She  mingled  with  its  gorgeous  dyes 

The  milky  baldric  of  the  skies. 

And  striped  its  pure  celestial  white 

With  streakings  of  the  morning  light ; 

Then,  from  his  mansion  in  the  Sun, 

She  call'd  her  eagle  bearer  down. 

And  gave  into  his  mighty  hand 

The  symbol  of  her  chosen  land  ! 

Majestic  monarch  of  the  cloud  ! 

Who  rear'st  aloft  thy  regal  form. 
To  hear  the  tempest-trumpings  loud, 
And  see  the  lightning  lances  driven, 

When  strive  the  warriors  of  the  storm. 
And  rolls  the  thunder-drum  of  heaven,  — 
Child  of  the  Sun  !  to  thee  'tis  given 

To  guard  the  banner  of  the  free, 
To  hover  in  the  sulphur  smoke. 
To  ward  away  the  battle-stroke. 

And  bid  its  blendings  shine  afar, 

Like  rainbows  on  the  cloud  of  war, 
The  harbingers  of  victory  ! 


THE    AMERICAN    FLAG.  271 

Flag  of  the  brave  !  thy  folds  shall  fly, 
The  sign  of  hope  and  triumph  high  ! 
When  speaks  the  sigual-truiniiet  tone, 
And  the  long  line  conies  gleaming  on, 
Ere  yet  the  life-blood,  warm  and  wet. 
Has  dimni'd  the  glistening  bayonet, 
Each  soldier's  eye  shall  brightly  turn 
To  where  thy  sky-born  glories  burn. 
And,  as  his  springing  steps  advance, 
Catch  war  and  vengeance  from  the  glance. 
And  when  the  cannon-mouthings  loud 
Heave  in  wild  wreaths  the  battle  shroud, 
And  gory  satires  rise  and  fall 
Like  shoots  of  flame  on  midnight's  pall, 
Then  shall  thy  meteor  glances  glow. 

And  cowering  foes  shall  shrink  beneath 
Each  gallant  arm  that  strikes  below 

That  lovely  messenger  of  death. 

Flag  of  the  seas  !  on  ocean  wave 
Thy  stars  shall  glitter  o'er  the  brave ; 
When  death,  careering  on  the  gale, 
Sweeps  darkly  round  the  bellied  sail. 
And  frighten'd  waves  rush  wildly  back 
Before  the  broadside's  reeling  rack, 
Each  dying  wanderer  of  the  sea 
Shall  look  at  once  to  heaven  and  thee, 
And  smile  to  see  thy  splendours  fly 
In  triumph  o'er  his  closing  eye. 

Flag  of  the  free  heart's  hope  and  home, 

By  angel-hands  to  valour  given. 
Thy  stars  have  lit  the  welkin  dome. 

And  all  thy  hues  were  born  in  heaven. 
Forever  float  that  standard  sheet. 

Where  breathes  the  foe  but  falls  before  us, 
With  Freedom's  soil  beneath  our  feet. 

And  Freedom's  banner  streaming  o'er  us  ! 


272  CHOICE    READINGS. 

THE   EISING   OF   1776. 

Thomas  Buchanan  Read. 

Out  of  the  North  the  wild  news  came, 
Far  flashing  on  its  wings  of  flame, 
Swift  as  the  boreal  light  which  flies 
At  midnight  through  the  startled  skies. 
And  there  was  tumult  in  the  air, 

The  fife's  shrill  note,  the  drum's  loud  beat 
And  through  the  wide  land  everywhere 

The  answering  tread  of  hurrying  feet ; 
While  the  first  oath  of  Freedom's  gun 
Came  on  the  blast  from  Lexington  ; 
And  Concord  roused,  no  longer  tame, 
Forgot  her  old  baptismal  name, 
Made  bare  her  patriot  arm  of  power, 
And  swell' d  the  discord  of  the  hour. 

Within  its  shade  of  elm  and  oak 

The  church  of  Berkley  Manor  stood  ; 
There  Sunday  found  the  rural  folk, 

And  some  esteem'd  of  gentle  blood. 

In  vain  their  feet  with  loitering  tread 
Pass'd  'mid  the  graves  where  rank  is  nought ; 
All  could  not  read  the  lesson  taught 

In  that  republic  of  the  dead. 

How  sweet  the  hour  of  Sabbath  talk, 

The  vale  with  peace  and  sunshine  full. 
Where  all  the  happy  people  walk, 

Deck'd  in  their  homespun  flax  and  wool ; 

Where  youth's  gay  hats  with  blossoms  bloom 
And  every  maid,  with  simple  art, 
Wears  on  her  breast,  like  her  own  heart, 

A  l)ud  whose  depths  are  all  perfume  ; 
While  every  garment's  gentle  stir 
Is  breathing  rose  and  lavender. 


THE    RISING    OF    1776. 

The  pastor  came  :  bis  snowy  locks 

Hallow'd  his  brow  of  thought  and  care  ; 
And  cahnly,  as  shepherds  lead  their  flocks, 

He  led  into  the  house  of  prayer. 
Then  soon  he  rose  ;  the  prayer  was  strong  ; 
The  Psalm  was  warrior  David's  song  ; 
The  text,  a  few  short  words  of  might  — 
"  The  Lord  of  hosts  shall  arm  the  right !  '* 
He  spoke  of  wrongs  too  long  endured, 
Of  sacred  rights  to  be  secured  ; 
Then  from  his  patriot  tongue  of  flame 
The  startling  words  for  Freedom  came. 
The  stirring  sentences  he  spake 
Compell'd  the  heart  to  glow  or  quake, 
And,  rising  on  his  theme's  broad  wing, 
And  grasping  in  his  nervous  hand 
Th'  imaginary  battle-brand, 
In  face  of  death  he  dared  to  fling 
Defiance  to  a  tyrant  king. 

Even  as  he  spoke,  his  frame,  renew'd 
In  eloquence  of  attitude. 
Rose,  as  it  seem'd,  a  shoulder  higher ; 
Then  swept  his  kindling  glance  of  fire 
From  startled  pew  to  breathless  choir ; 
When  suddenly  his  mantle  wide 
His  hands  impatient  flung  aside, 
And,  lo  !  he  met  their  wondering  eyes 
Complete  in  all  a  warrior's  guise. 

A  moment  there  was  awful  pause, 

When  Berkley  cried,  -Cease,  traitoH  cease. 

God's  temple  is  the  house  of  peace  !  " 

The  other  shouted,  "  Nay,  not  so, 
When  God  is  with  our  righteous  cause  ; 
His  holiest  places  then  are  ours, 
His  temples  are  our  forts  and  towers 


273 


274  CHOICE  readings. 

That  frown  upon  the  tyrant  foe ; 
In  this,  the  dawn  of  Freedom's  day. 
There  is  a  time  to  fight  and  pra}' ! " 

And  now  before  the  open  door  — 

The  warrior  priest  had  order' d  so — ■ 
Th'  enlisting  trumpet's  sudden  roar 
Rang  through  the  chapel,  o'er  and  o'er. 

Its  long  reverberating  blow, 
So  loud  and  clear,  it  seem'd  the  ear 
Of  dusty  death  must  wake  and  hear. 

And  there  the  startling  drum  and  fife 
Fired  the  living  with  fiercer  life  ; 
While  overhead,  with  wild  increase, 
Forgetting  its  ancient  toll  of  peace. 

The  great  bell  swung  as  ne'er  before : 
It  seem'd  as  it  would  never  cease  ; 
And  eveiy  word  its  ardour  flung 
From  oflT  its  jubilant  iron  tongue 

Was,  "War!  War!  WAR!" 

"  Who  dares  "  —  this  was  the  patriot's  cry, 
As  striding  from  the  desk  he  came  — 
"  Come  out  with  me,  in  Freedom's  name, 
For  her  to  live,  for  her  to  die  ?  " 
A  hundred  hands  flung  up  reply, 
A  hundred  voices  auswer'd,  "  I !  " 


EEPLY  TO  ME.  OOEET. 

H.  Grattan. 

Has  the  gentleman  done  ?  Has  he  completely  done? 
He  was  unparliamentary  from  the  beginning  to  the  end 
of  his  speech.  There  was  scarce  a  word  he  uttered  that 
was  not  a  violation  of  the  privilegee  of  the  House.     But 


REPLY    TO    MR.    CORBY.  275 

I  did  not  call  him  to  order,  —  why  ?  because  the 
limited  talents  of  some  men  render  it  impossible  for 
them  to  be  severe  without  being  unparliamentary.  But 
before  I  sit  down  I  shall  show  him  how  to  be  severe  and 
parliamentary  at  the  same  time. 

On  any  other  occasion,  I  should  think  myself  justifi- 
able in  treating  with  silent  contempt  anything  which 
might  fall  from  that  honourable  member ;  but  there  are 
times  when  the  insignificance  of  the  accuser  is  lost  in 
the  magnitude  of  the  accusation.  I  know  the  difficulty 
the  honourable  gentleman  laboured  under  when  he 
attacked  me,  conscious  that,  on  a  comparative  view  of 
our  characters,  public  and  private,  there  is  nothing  he 
could  say  which  would  injure  me.  The  public  would 
not  believe  the  charge.  I  despise  the  falsehood.  If 
such  a  charge  were  made  by  an  honest  man,  I  would 
answer  it  in  the  manner  I  shall  do  before  I  sit  down. 
But  I  shall  first  reply  to  it  when  not  made  by  an  honest 
man. 

The  right-honourable  gentleman  has  called  me  "  an 
unimpeached  traitor."  I  ask  why  not  "traitor,"  un- 
qualified by  any  epithet  ?  I  will  tell  him :  it  was 
because  he  durst  not.  It  was  the  act  of  a  coward,  who 
raises  his  arm  to  strike,  but  has  not  courage  to  give  the 
blow.  I  will  not  call  him  villain,  because  it  would  be 
unparliamentary,  and  he  is  a  Privy  Counsellor.  I  will 
not  call  him  fool,  because  he  happens  to  be  Chancellor 
of  the  Exchequer.  But  I  say,  he  is  one  who  has  abused 
the  privilege  of  parliament  and  the  freedom  of  debate, 
b}'  uttering  language  wlticli,  if  spoken  out  of  the  House, 
I  should  answer  only  with  a  bk)W.  I  care  not  how  liigli 
his  situation,  how  low  his  character,  how  contenq)tible 
his  speech ;  whether  a  Privy  Counsellor  or  a  parasite, 
my  answer  would  be  a  blow. 


276  CHOICE    READINGS. 

He  has  charged  me  with  being  connected  with  the 
rebels.  The  charge  is  utterly,  totally,  and  meanly  false. 
Does  the  honourable  gentleman  rely  on  the  report  of 
the  House  of  Lords  for  the  foundation  of  his  assertion  ? 
If  he  does,  I  can  prove  to  the  committee  there  was  a 
physical  impossibility  of  that  report  being  true.  But  I 
scorn  to  answer  any  man  for  my  conduct,  whether  he 
be  a  political  coxcomb,  or  whether  he  brought  himself 
into  power  by  a  false  glare  of  courage  or  not. 

I  have  returned,  —  not,  as  the  right-honourable  mem- 
ber has  said,  to  raise  another  storm,  —  I  have  returned 
to  discharge  an  honourable  debt  of  gratitude  to  my 
country,  that  conferred  a  great  reward  for  past  services, 
which,  I  am  proud  to  sa}^,  was  not  greater  than  my 
desert.  I  have  returned  to  protect  that  Constitution  of 
which  I  was  the  parent  and  founder,  from  the  assassi- 
nation of  such  men  as  the  right-honourable  gentleman 
and  his  unworthy  associates.  They  are  corrupt,  they 
are  seditious,  and  they,  at  this  very  moment,  are  in  a 
conspiracy  against  their  country.  I  have  returned  to 
refute  a  libel,  as  false  as  it  is  malicious,  given  to  the 
public  under  the  appellation  of  a  report  of  the  committee 
of  the  Lords.  Here  I  stand,  ready  for  impeachment  or 
trial.  I  dare  accusation.  I  defy  the  honourable  gen- 
tleman ;  I  defy  the  Government ;  I  defy  their  wdiole 
l)halanx:  let  them  come  forth!  I  tell  the  Ministers,  I 
will  neither  give  quarter  nor  take  it.  I  am  here  to  lay 
the  shattered  remains  of  my  constitution  on  the  floor  of 
this  house,  in  defence  of  the  liberties  of  my  country. 


WISDOM    DEAKLY    PUKCHASED.  277 

WISDOM  DEAELT   PUECHASED. 

Edmund  Burke. 

The  British  Parliament,  in  a  former  session,  fright- 
ened into  a  limited  concession  by  the  menaces  of  Ireland, 
frightened  out  of  it  by  the  menaces  of  England,  was  now 
frightened  back  again,  and  made  an  universal  surrender 
of  all  that  had  been  thought  the  peculiar,  reserved,  un- 
communicable  rights  of  England.  No  reserve,  no  excep- 
tion ;  no  debate,  no  discussion.  A  sudden  light  broke 
in  upon  us  all.  It  broke  in,  not  through  well-contrived 
and  well-disposed  windows,  but  through  flaws  and 
breaches,  —  through  the  yawning  chasms  of  our  ruin. 
We  were  taught  wisdom  by  humiliation.  No  town  in 
England  presumed  to  have  a  prejudice,  or  dared  to 
mutter  a  petition.  What  was  worse,  the  whole  Parlia- 
ment of  England,  which  retained  authority  for  nothing 
but  surrenders,  was  despoiled  of  every  shadow  of  its 
superintendence.  It  was,  without  any  qualification, 
denied  in  theory,  as  it  had  been  trampled  upon  in  prac- 
tice. 

What,  Gentlemen !  was  I  not  to  foresee,  or,  foresee- 
ing, was  I  not  to  endeavour  to  save  you  from  all  these 
multiplied  mischiefs  and  disgraces  ?  Would  the  little, 
silly,  canvass  prattle  of  obeying  instructions,  and  having 
no  opinions  but  yours,  and  such  idle,  senseless  tales, 
which  amuse  the  vacant  ears  of  unthinking  men,  have 
saved  you  from  "  the  })elting  of  that  pitiless  storm  "  to 
which  the  loose  improvidence,  the  cowardly  rashness, 
of  those  who  dare  not  look  danger  in  the  face  so  as  to 
provide  against  it  in  time,  and  therefore  throw  them- 
selves headlong  into  the  midst  of  it,  have  exposed  this 
degraded  nation,  beat  down  and  prostrate  on  the  earth, 
unsheltered,  unarmed,  unresisting  ?     Was  I  an  Irishman 


278  CHOICE   READINGS. 

on  that  day  that  I  boklly  withstood  our  pride?  or  on 
the  day  that  I  hung  down  my  head,  and  wept  in  shame 
and  silence  over  the  humiliation  of  Great  Britain  ?  I 
became  unpopular  in  England  for  the  one,  and  in  Ire- 
land for  the  other.  What  then  ?  What  obligation  lay 
on  me  to  be  popular  ?  I  was  bound  to  serve  both  king 
doms.  To  be  pleased  with  my  service  was  their  affair, 
not  mine. 

I  was  an  Irishman  in  the  Irish  business,  just  as  much 
as  I  was  an  American,  when,  on  the  same  principles,  I 
wished  you  to  concede  to  America  at  a  time  when  she 
jn-ayed  concession  at  our  feet.  Just  as  much  was  I  an 
American,  when  I  wished  Parliament  to  offer  terms  in 
victory,  and  not  to  wait  the  ill-chosen  hour  of  defeat, 
for  making  good  by  Aveakness  and  by  supplication  a 
claim  of  prerogative,  preeminence,  and  authority. 

Instead  of  requiring  it  from  me,  as  a  })oint  of  duty,  to 
kindle  with  your  passions,  had  you  all  been  as  cool  as  I 
was,  you  would  have  been  saved  disgraces  and  distresses 
that  are  unutterable.  Do  you  remember  our  commis- 
sion ?  We  sent  out  a  solemn  embassy  across  the  Atlan- 
tic Ocean,  to  lay  the  crown,  the  peerage,  the  commons 
of  Great  Britain  at  tlie  feet  of  the  American  Congress. 
That  our  disgrace  might  want  no  sort  of  brightening  and 
burnishing,  observe  who  they  were  that  composed  this 
famous  embassy.  My  Lord  Carlisle  is  among  the  first 
ranks  of  our  nobility.  He  is  the  identical  man  who, 
but  two  years  before,  had  been  put  forward,  at  the 
opening  of  a  session,  in  the  House  of  Lords,  as  the 
mover  of  an  haughty  and  rigorous  address  against 
America.  He  was  put  in  the  front  of  tlie  embassy  of 
submission.  Mr.  Eden  Avas  taken  from  the  office  of 
Lord  Suffolk,  to  whom  he  was  then  Under-Secretary  of 
State,  —  from  the  office  of  that  Lord  Suffolk  who  but  a 


WISDOM    DEARLY    PURCHASED.  279 

few  weeks  before,  in  his  place  in  Parliament,  did  not 
deign  to  inquire  where  a  congress  of  vagrants  was  to 
be  found. 

They  enter  the  capital  of  America  only  to  abandon 
it ;  and  these  assertors  and  representatives  of  the  dig- 
nity of  England,  at  the  tail  of  a  flying  army,  let  fly 
their  Parthian  shafts  of  memorials  and  remonstrances 
at  random  behind  them.  Their  promises  and  their 
offers,  their  flatteries  and  their  menaces,  were  all 
despised ;  and  we  were  saved  the  disgrace  of  their  for- 
mal reception  only  because  the  Congress  scorned  to 
receive  them  ;  whilst  the  State-house  of  independent 
Philadelphia  opened  her  doors  to  the  public  entry  of 
the  ambassador  of  France.  From  war  and  blood  we 
went  to  submission,  and  from  submission  plunged  back 
again  to  war  and  blood,  to  desolate  and  be  desolated, 
without  measure,  hope,  or  end.  I  am  a  Royalist :  I 
blushed  for  this  degradation  of  the  Crown.  I  am  a 
Whig :  I  blushed  for  the  dishonour  of  Parliament.  I 
am  a  true  Englishman :  I  felt  to  the  quick  for  the  dis- 
grace of  England.  I  am  a  man  :  I  felt  for  the  melan- 
choly reverse  of  human  affairs  in  the  fall  of  the  first 
power  in  the  world. 

To  read  what  was  approaching  in  Ireland,  in  the 
black  and  bloody  characters  of  the  American  war,  was 
a  painful,  but  it  was  a  necessary  part  of  my  public  duty. 
For,  Gentlemen,  it  is  not  your  fond  desires  or  mine 
that  can  alter  the  nature  of  things ;  by  contending 
against  which,  what  have  we  got,  or  ever  shall  get,  but 
defeat  and  shame?  T  did  not  obey  your  instructions. 
No.  I  conformed  to  the  instructions  of  truth  and  Na- 
ture, and  maintained  your  interest,  against  your  opin- 
ions, with  a  constancy  that  became  me.  A  representa- 
tive worthy  of  you  ought  to  be  a  person  of  stability. 


280  CHOICE    READINGS. 

I  am  to  look,  indeed,  to  your  opinions,  —  but  to  such 
opinions  as  you  and  I  must  have  five  years  hence.  I 
was  not  to  look  to  the  flash  of  the  day.  I  knew  that 
you  chose  me,  in  my  place,  along  with  others,  to  be  a 
pillar  of  the  State,  and  not  a  weathercock  on  the  top 
of  the  edifice,  exalted  for  my  levity  and  versatility,  and 
of  no  use  but  to  indicate  the  shiftings  of  every  fash- 
ionable gale.  Would  to  God  the  value  of  my  senti- 
ments on  Ireland  and  on  America  had  been  at  this  day 
a  subject  of  doubt  and  discussion  !  No  matter  what  my 
sufferings  had  been,  so  that  this  kingdom  had  kept  the 
authority  I  wished  it  to  maintain,  by  a  grave  foresight, 
and  by  an  equitable  temperance  in  the  use  of  its  power. 


"MATCHES  AND   OVERMATCHES." 

Daniel  Webster. 

But  the  gentleman  inquires  why  he  was  made  the 
object  of  such  a  reply.  Wliy  was  he  singled  out  ?  If 
an  attack  has  been  made  on  the  East,  he,  he  assures  us,- 
did  not  begin  it :  it  was  made  by  the  gentleman  from 
Missouri.  Sir,  I  answered  the  gentleman's  speech 
because  I  happened  to  hear  it ;  and  because,  also,  I 
chose  to  give  an  answer  to  that  speech  which,  if  un- 
answered, I  thought  most  likely  to  produce  injurious 
impressions.  I  did  not  stop  to  inquire  who  was  the 
original  drawer  of  the  bill.  I  found  a  responsible  in- 
dorser  before  me,  and  it  was  my  purpose  to  hold  him 
liable,  and  to  bring  liim  to  his  just  responsibility  with- 
out delay.  But,  Sir,  this  interrogatory  of  the  honoura- 
ble member  was  only  introductory  t<j  another.  He  pro- 
ceeded to  ask  me  whether  I  had  turned  upon  him,  in 
this  debate,  from  the  consciousness  that  I  should  find 


"MATCHES    AND    OVERMATCHES."  281 

an  overmatch,  if  I  ventured  on  a  contest  witli  his  friend 
from  Missouri. 

If,  Sir,  the  honourable  member,  modestice  (/rafia,  had 
chosen  thus  to  defer  to  his  friend,  and  to  pay  him  a  com- 
pliment, without  intentional  disparagement  to  others, 
it  would  have  been  quite  according  to  the  friendly 
courtesies  of  debate,  and  not  at  all  ungrateful  to  my 
own  feelings.  I  am  not  one  of  those.  Sir,  who  esteem 
any  tribute  of  regard,  whether  light  and  occasional,  or 
more  serious  and  deliberate,  which  may  be  bestowed  on 
others,  as  so  much  unjustly  withholden  from  themselves. 
But  the  tone  and  manner  of  the  gentleman's  question 
forbid  me  thus  to  interpret  it.  I  am  not  at  liberty  to 
consider  it  as  nothing  more  than  a  civility  to  his  friend. 
It  had  an  air  of  taunt  and  disparagement,  something  of 
the  loftiness  of  asserted  superiority,  which  does  not 
allow  me  to  pass  it  over  without  notice.  It  was  put  as 
a  question  for  me  to  answer,  and  so  put  as  if  it  were 
difficult  for  me  to  answer,  whether  I  deemed  the  mem- 
ber from  Missouri  an  overmatch  for  myself  in  debate 
here.  It  seems  to  me,  Sir,  that  this  is  extraordinary 
language,  and  an  extraordinary  tone,  for  the  discussions 
of  this  bod3\ 

Matches  and  overmatches  !  Those  terms  are  more 
applicable  elsewhere  than  here,  and  fitter  for  other 
assemblies  than  this.  Sir,  the  gentleman  seems  to  for- 
get where  and  what  we  are.  This  is  a  Senate,  a  Senate 
of  equals,  of  men  of  individual  honour  and  personal 
character,  and  of  absolute  independence.  We  know  no 
masters,  we  acknowledge  no  dictators.  This  is  a  hall 
for  mutual  consultation  and  discussion  ;  not  an  areria 
for  the  exhibition  of  champions.  I  offer  mysell.  Sir,  as 
a  match  for  no  man ;  I  throw  the  challenge  of  debate 
at  no  man's  feet.     But  then,  Sir,  since  the  honourable 


282  CHOICE    READINGS. 

member  has  put  the  question  in  a  manner  that  calls 
for  an  answer,  I  will  give  him  an  answer  ;  and  I  tell 
him  that,  holding  myself  to  be  the  humblest  of  the 
members  here,  I  yet  know  nothing  in  the  arm  of  his 
friend  from  Missoui'i,  either  alone  or  when  aided  by  the 
arm  of  his  friend  from  South  Carolina,  that  need  deter 
even  me  from  espousing  whatever  opinions  I  may  choose 
to  espouse,  from  debating  whenever  I  may  choose  to 
debate,  or  from  speaking  whatever  I  may  see  fit  to  say, 
on  the  floor  of  the  Senate. 

Sir,  when  uttered  as  matter  of  commendation  or  com- 
pliment, I  should  dissent  from  nothing  which  the  hon- 
ourable member  might  say  of  his  friend.  Still  less  do  I 
put  forth  any  pretensions  of  my  own.  But,  when  put 
to  me  as  matter  of  taunt,  I  throw  it  back,  and  say  to 
the  gentleman  that  he  could  possibly  say  nothing  more 
likely  than  such  a  comparison  to  wound  my  pride  of 
personal  character.  The  anger  of  its  tone  rescued  the 
remark  from  intentional  irony,  which  otherwise,  proba- 
bly, would  have  been  its  general  acceptation.  But,  Sir, 
if  it  be  imagined  that  by  this  mutual  quotation  and 
commendation  ;  if  it  be  supposed  that,  by  casting  the 
characters  of  the  drama,  assigning  to  each  his  part,  to 
one  the  attack,  to  another  the  cry  of  onset ;  or  if  it  be 
thought  that,  by  a  loud  and  empty  vaunt  of  anticipated 
victory,  any  laurels  are  to  be  won  here ;  if  it  be  imag- 
ined, especially,  that  any,  or  all  these  things  will  shake 
any  purpose  of  mine,  I  can  tell  the  honourable  mem- 
ber, once  for  all,  that  he  is  greatly  mistaken,  and  that 
he  is  dealing  with  one  of  whose  temper  and  character 
he  has  yet  much  to  learn. 

Sir,  I  shall  not  allow  myself,  on  this  occasion,  I  hope 
on  no  occasion,  to  be  betrayed  into  any  loss  of  temper : 
but,  if  provoked,  as  I  trust  I  never  shall  be,  into  crimi- 


EULOGY    ON    LAl'WYETTK.  283 

nation  and  recrimination,  the  honourable  member  may 
[)erhaps  find  that,  in  that  contest,  there  will  be  blows  to 
take  as  well  as  blows  to  give ;  that  others  can  state 
comparisons  as  significant,  at  least,  as  his  own ;  and 
that  his  impunity  may  possibly  demand  of  him  whatever 
powers  of  taunt  and  sarcasm  he  may  possess.  I  commend 
him  to  a  prudent  husbandry  of  his  resources. 


EULOGY   ON   LAPAYETTE. 

Edward  Everett. 

There  have  been  those  who  have  denied  to  Lafayette 
the  name  of  a  great  man.  What  is  greatness?  Does 
goodness  belong  to  greatness,  and  make  an  essential 
part  of  it  ?  If  it  does,  who,  I  would  ask,  of  all  the 
prominent  names  in  history,  has  run  through  such  a 
career  with  so  little  reproach,  justly  or  unjustly  be- 
stowed? Are  military  courage  and  conduct  the  meas- 
ure of  greatness?  Lafayette  was  intrusted  by  Wash- 
ington with  all  kinds  of  service,  —  the  laborious  and 
complicated,  which  required  skill  and  patience ;  the 
perilous,  that  demanded  nerve  ,  and  we  see  him  per- 
forming all  with  entire  success  and  brilliant  reputation. 
Is  the  readiness  to  meet  vast  responsibilities  a  proof  of 
greatness?  The  memoirs  of  Mr.  Jefferson  show  us  that 
there  was  a  moment,  in  1789,  when  Lafayette  took  upon 
himself,  as  the  head  of  the  military  force,  the  entire 
responsibility  of  laying  down  tlie  basis  of  the  Revolu- 
tion. Is  the  cool  and  brave  administration  of  gigantic 
power  a  mark  of  greatness  ?  In  all  the  whirlwind  of 
the  Revolution,  and  when,  as  commander-in-chief  of  the 
National  Guard,  an  organized  force  of  three  millions  of 
men,  who,  for  any  popular  purpose,  needed  but  a  word. 


284  CHOICE    HEADINGS. 

a  look,  to  put  them  in  motion,  we  behold  him  ever 
calm,  collected,  disinterested ;  as  free  from  affectation 
as  selfishness ;  clothed  not  less  with  humility  than  with 
power.  Is  the  voluntary  return,  in  advancing  years,  to 
the  direction  of  affairs,  at  a  moment  like  that  when,  in 
1815,  the  ponderous  machinery  of  the  French  Empire 
was  flying  asunder, — stunning,  rending,  crushing  thou- 
sands on  every  side, — a  mark  of  greatness?  Lastly, 
is  it  any  proof  of  greatness,  to  be  able,  at  the  age  of 
seventy -three,  to  take  the  lead  in  a  successful  and  blood- 
less revolution ;  to  change  the  dynasty ;  to  organize, 
exercize,  and  abdicate  a  military  command  of  three  and 
a  half  millions  of  men  ;  to  take  up,  to  perform,  and  lay 
down  the  most  momentous,  delicate,  and  perilous  duties, 
without  passion,  without  hurry,  without  selfishness? 
Is  it  great  to  disregard  the  bribes  of  title,  office,  money ; 
to  live,  to  labour,  and  suffer  for  great  public  ends  alone  ; 
to  adhere  to  principle  under  all  circumstances  ;  to  stand 
before  Europe  and  America  conspicuous,  for  sixty  years, 
in  the  most  responsible  stations,  the  acknowledged  ad- 
miration of  all  good  men? 

But  it  is  more  than  time,  fellow-citizens,  that  I  com- 
mit the  memory  of  this  great  and  good  man  to  your 
unprompted  contemplation.  On  his  arrival  among  you, 
ten  years  ago,  when  your  civil  fathers,  your  military, 
your  children,  your  whole  population,  poured  itself  out, 
in  one  throng,  to  salute  him ;  when  your  cannons  pro- 
claimed his  advent  with  joyous  salvos,  and  your  accla- 
mations were  answered,  from  steeple  to  steeple,  by 
festal  bells,  —  with  what  delight  did  you  not  listen  to 
his  cordial  and  affectionate  words,  —  "I  beg  of  you  all, 
beloved  citizens  of  Boston,  to  accept  the  respectful  and 
warm  thanks  of  a  heart  which  has  for  nearly  half  a  cen- 
tury been  devoted  to  your  illustrious  city  !  " 


EULOGY    ON    LAFAYETTE.  285 

That  noble  heart,  —  to  which,  if  any  object  on  Earth 
was  dear,  that  object  was  the  country  of  his  early  choice, 
of  his  adoption,  and  his  more  than  regal  triumph,  — 
that  noble  heart  will  beat  no  more  for  your  welfare. 
Cold  and  still,  it  is  already  mingling  with  the  dust. 
While  he  lived,  you  thronged  with  delight  to  his  pres- 
ence ;  you  gazed  with  admiration  on  his  placid  features 
and  venerable  form,  not  wholly  unshaken  by  the  rude 
storms  of  his  career  ;  and  now,  that  he  has  departed,  you 
have  assembled  in  this  cradle  of  the  liberties  for  which, 
with  your  fathers,  he  risked  his  life,  to  pay  the  last  hon- 
ours to  his  memory.  You  have  thrown  open  these  con- 
secrated portals  to  admit  the  lengthened  train,  whicli 
has  come  to  discharge  the  last  public  offices  of  respect 
to  his  name.  You  have  hung  these  venerable  arches, 
for  the  second  time  since  their  erection,  with  the  sable 
badges  of  sorrow.  You  have  thus  associated  the  mem- 
ory of  Lafayette  in  those  distinguished  honours,  which 
but  a  few  years  since  you  paid  to  your  Adams  and  Jeff- 
erson. 

There  is  not,  throughout  the  world,  a  friend  of  liberty 
who  has  not  dropped  his  head  Avhen  he  has  heard  that 
Lafayette  is  no  more.  Poland,  Italy,  Greece,  Spain, 
Ireland,  the  South  American  republics,  —  every  country 
where  man  is  struggling  to  recover  his  birthright,  ■ — 
have  lost  a  benefactor,  a  patron  in  Lafayette.  xVnd 
what  was  it,  fellow-citizens,  which  gave  to  our  Lafayette 
his  spotless  fame  ?  The  love  of  liberty.  What  has  con- 
secrated his  memory  in  the  hearts  of  good  men  ?  The 
love  of  liberty.  What  nerved  his  youthful  arm  with 
strength,  and  inspired  him,  in  the  morning  of  his  days, 
with  sagacity  and  counsel  ?  The  living  love  of  liberty. 
To  what  did  he  sacrifice  power,  and  rank,  and  country, 
and  freedom  itself?     To  the  horror  of  licentiousness, — 


286  CHOICE    READINGS. 

—  to  the  sanctity  of  plighted  faith,  —  to  the  love  of  lib- 
erty protected  by  law.  Thus  the  great  principle  of 
your  Revolutionary  fathers,  and  of  your  Pilgrim  sires, 
was  the  rule  of  his  life,  —  the  love  of  liberty  protected  by 
law. 

You  have  now  assembled  within  these  celebrated 
walls,  to  perform  tlie  last  duties  of  respect  and  love,  on 
the  birthday  of  your  benefactor.  The  spirit  of  the 
departed  is  in  high  communion  with  the  spirit  of  the 
place,  —  the  temple  worthy  of  the  new  name  which  we 
now  behold  inscribed  on  its  walls.  Listen,  Americans, 
to  the  lesson  which  seems  borne  to  us  on  the  very  air 
we  breathe,  while  we  perform  these  dutiful  rites  !  Ye 
winds,  that  wafted  the  Pilgrims  to  the  land  of  promise, 
fan,  in  their  children's  hearts,  the  love  of  freedom ! 
Blood,  which  our  fathers  shed,  cry  from  the  ground ! 
Echoing  arches  of  this  renowned  hall,  whisper  back  the 
voices  of  other  days !  Glorious  Washington,  break  the 
long  silence  of  that  votive  canvas  !  Speak,  speak,  mar- 
ble lips;  teach  us  the  love  of  liberty  protected 

BY   LAW. 

KIENZrS   ADDRESS   TO   THE  EOMANS. 

Miss    M.    R.    MiTFORD. 

Friends,  I  come  not  here  to  talk.     Ye  kuow  too  well 

The  story  of  our  thraldom  ;  —  we  are  slaves  ! 

The  bright  Sun  rises  to  his  course,  and  lights 

A  race  of  slaves  !     He  sets,  and  his  last  beam 

Falls  on  ti  slave  !  —  not  such  as,  swept  along 

B}'  the  full  tide  of  power,  the  conqueror  leads 

To  crimson  glory  and  undying  fame  ; 

But  base,  ignoble  slaves,  —  slaves  to  a  horde 

Of  petty  tyrants,  feudal  despots,  lords. 

Rich  in  some  dozen  paltry  villages,  — 

Strong  in  some  hundred  spearmen,  —  only  great 


RIENZl's    ADDRESS    TO    THE    ROMANS.  287 

In  that  strange  spell,  a  name  !     Each  hour,  dark  fraud, 

Or  open  rapine,  or  protected  murder, 

Cries  out  against  them.     But  this  very  da}', 

An  honest  man,  my  neighbour,  — there  he  stands,  — 

Was  struck  —  struck  like  a  dog,  b}'  one  who  wore 

The  badge  of  Ursini !  because,  forsooth, 

He  toss'd  not  high  his  ready  cap  in  air, 

Nor  lifted  up  his  voice  in  servile  shouts. 

At  sight  of  that  great  ruffian  !     Be  we  men. 

And  suffer  such  dishonour?  men,  and  wash  not 

The  stain  away  in  blood?     Such  shames  are  common. 

I  have  known  deeper  wrongs.     I,  that  speak  to  you,  — 

I  had  a  brother  once,  —  a  gracious  bo}', 

Full  of  all  gentleness,  of  calmest  hope, 

Of  sweet  and  quiet  joy  ;  there  was  the  look 

Of  Heaven  upon  his  face,  which  limners  give 

To  the  beloved  disciple.     How  I  loved 

That  gracious  boy  !     Younger  b}-  fifteen  yeai's, 

Brother  at  once  and  son  !     He  left  my  side, 

A  summer  bloom  on  his  fair  cheeks,  a  smile 

Parting  his  innocent  lips.     In  one  short  hour, 

The  pretty,  harmless  boy  was  slain  !     I  saw 

The  corse,  the  mangled  corse,  and  then  I  cried 

For  vengeance  !     Rouse,  ye  Romans  !  rouse,  ye  slaves ! 

Have  ye  brave  sons?     Look,  in  the  next  fierce  brawl. 

To  see  them  die  !     Have  3-e  daughters  fair  ?     Look 

To  see  them  live,  torn  from  your  arms,  distain'd, 

Dishonour'd  !  and,  if  ye  dare  call  for  justice, 

Be  answer'd  b}'  the  lash !     Yet  this  is  Rome, 

That  sat  on  her  seven  hills,  and  from  her  throne 

Of  beauty  ruled  the  world  !     Yet  we  are  Romans  ! 

Why,  m  that  elder  day,  to  be  a  Roman 

Was  greater  than  a  king  !  —  and  once  again,  — 

Hear  me,  ye  walls,  that  echo'd  to  the  tread 

Of  either  Brutus  !  —  once  again  I  swear, 

Th'  eternal  city  shall  be  free  !  her  sons 

Shall  walk  with  princes  ! 


288  CHOICE   READINGS. 

LOOHIEL'S    WAENINa. 

Thomas  Campbell. 

Seer.    Loehiel,  Lochiel,  beware  of  the  day 
When  the  Lowlands  shall  meet  thee  in  battle  array ! 
For  a  field  of  the  dead  rushes  red  on  my  sight. 
And  the  clans  of  CuUoden  are  scatter'd  in  fight : 
They  rail}',  they  bleed,  for  their  kingdom  and  crown ; 
Woe,  woe,  to  the  riders  that  trample  them  down  ! 
Proud  Cumberland  prances,  insulting  the  slain. 
And  their  hoof-beaten  bosoms  are  trod  to  the  plain. 
But,  hark  !  through  the  fast-flashing  lightning  of  war, 
What  steed  to  the  desert  flies  frantic  and  far? 
'Tis  thine,  O  Glenulhn  !  whose  bride  shall  await, 
Like  a  love-lighted  watch-fire,  all  night  at  the  gate. 
A  steed  comes  at  morning :  no  rider  is  there  ; 
But  its  bridle  is  red  with  the  sign  of  despair ! 
Weep,  Albin  !  to  death  and  captivity  led  ! 
O,  weep  !  but  th}-  tears  cannot  number  the  dead  ; 
For  a  merciless  sword  on  Culloden  shall  wave,  — 
CuUoden,  that  reeks  with  the  blood  of  the  brave ! 

Lochiel.    Go  preach  to  the  coward,  thou  death-telling  seer  ! 
Or,  if  gory  Culloden  so  dreadful  appear. 
Draw,  dotard,  around  thy  old  wavering  sight, 
This  mantle,  to  cover  the  phantoms  of  fright ! 

Seer.    Ha!  laughest  thou,  Lochiel,  my  vision  to  scorn? 
Proud  bird  of  the  mountain,  thy  plume  shall  be  torn  ! 
Say,  rnsh'd  the  bold  eagle  exultingly  forth 
From  his  home  in  the  dark-rolling  clouds  of  the  North  ? 
Lo  !  the  death-shot  of  foemen  out-speeding,  he  rode 
Companionless,  bearing  destruction  abroad  ; 
But  down  let  him  stoop,  from  his  havoc  on  high ! 
Ah  !  home  let  him  speed,  —  for  the  spoiler  is  nigh. 
Why  flames  the  far  summit?     Wliy  shoot  to  the  blast 
Those  embers,  like  stars  from  the  firmament  cast? 
'Tis  the  fire-shower  of  ruin,  all  dreadfully  driven 


lochiel's  warning.  289 

From  his  eyrie,  that  beacons  the  darkuess  of  heaven. 

0  crested  Lochiel !  the  peerless  in  might, 
Whose  banners  arise  on  the  battlements'  height, 
Heaven's  fire  is  around  thee,  to  blast  and  to  bui'n  ; 
Return  to  thy  dwelling  !  all  lonely  return  ! 

For  the  blackness  of  ashes  shall  mark  where  it  stood, 
And  a  wild  mother  scream  o'er  her  famishing  brood  ! 

Lochiel.    False  wizard,  avaunt !  I  have  marshall'd  my  clan, 
Their  swords  are  a  thousand,  —  their  bosoms  are  one  ! 
They  are  true  to  the  last  of  their  blood  and  their  breath, 
And  like  reapers  descend  to  the  harvest  of  death. 
Then  welcome  be  Cumberland's  steed  to  the  shock  ! 
Let  him  dash  his  proud  foam  like  a  wave  on  the  rock ! 
But  woe  to  his  kindred,  and  woe  to  his  cause. 
When  Albin  her  claymore  indignantly  draws  ! 
When  her  bonneted  chieftains  to  victory  crowd, 
Clanranald  the  dauntless,  and  Moray  the  proud, 
All  plaided  and  plumed  in  their  tartan  array,  — 

Seer.    Lochiel !  Lochiel !  beware  of  the  day  ! 
For,  dark  and  despairing,  my  sight  I  may  seal. 
But  man  cannot  cover  what  God  would  reveal. 
'Tis  the  sunset  of  life  gives  me  mystical  h)re, 
And  coming  events  cast  their  shadows  before. 

1  tell  thee,  Culloden's  dread  echoes  shall  ring 

With  the  bloodhounds  that  bark  for  thy  fugitive  king. 

Lo  !  anointed  by  Heaven  with  the  vials  of  wrath, 

Behold,  where  he  flies  on  his  desolate  path  ! 

Now  in  darkness  and  billows  he  sweeps  from  my  sight ; 

Rise  !  rise  !  ye  wild  tempests,  and  cover  his  flight !  — 

'Tis  finish'd.     Their  thunders  are  hush'd  on  the  moors,  — 

Culloden  is  lost,  and  my  country  deplores. 

But  where  is  the  iron-bound  prisoner?     AVhere? 

For  the  red  eye  of  battle  is  shut  in  despair. 

Say,  mounts  he  the  ocean-wave,  banish'd,  forlorn. 

Like  a  limb  from  his  country  cast  l)leeding  and  torn? 

Ah,  no  !  for  a  darker  departure  is  near  ; 


290  CHOICE     READINGS. 

The  war-drum  is  muffled,  aud  black  is  the  bier; 
His  death-bell  is  tolliug :  O  mercy,  dispel 
Yon  sight,  that  it  freezes  my  spirit  to  tell ! 
Life  flutters,  convulsed,  in  his  quivering  limbs. 
And  his  blood-streaming  nostril  in  agony  swims ! 
Accursed  be  the  fagots  that  blaze  at  his  feet, 
Where  his  heart  shall  be  thrown,  ere  it  ceases  to  beat, 
With  the  smoke  of  its  ashes  to  poison  the  gale,  — 

Lochiel.    Down,  soothless  insulter !     I  trust  not  the  tale  ! 
For  never  shall  Albin  a  destiny  meet 
So  black  with  dishonour,  so  foul  with  retreat. 
Though  my  perishing  ranks  should  be  strew'd  in  their  gore, 
Like  ocean-weeds  heap'd  on  the  surf-beaten  shore, 
Lochiel,  untainted  by  flight  or  by  chains. 
While  the  kindling  of  life  in  his  bosom  remains. 
Shall  victor  exult,  or  in  death  be  laid  low, 
With  his  back  to  the  field,  and  his  feet  to  the  foe  ! 
And,  leaving  in  battle  no  blot  on  his  name, 
Look  proudly  to  Heaven  from  the  death-bed  of  fame  ! 


^>S<c 


SPEECH  IN   THE   VIKGINIA  CONVENTION,  1775. 

Patrick  Henry. 

Mr.  President,  it  is  natural  for  man  to  indulge  in 
the  illusions  of  hope.  We  are  apt  to  shut  our  eyes 
against  a  painful  truth,  and  listen  to  the  song  of  that 
siren  till  she  transforms  us  into  beasts.  Is  this  the 
part  of  wise  men  engaged  in  the  great  and  arduous 
struggle  for  liberty?  Are  we  disposed  to  be  of  the 
number  of  those  who  having  eyes  see  not,  and  having 
ears  hear  not,  the  things  which  so  nearly  concern  their 
tem2)oral  salvation?  For  my  part,  whatever  anguish  of 
spirit  it  may  cost,  I  am  willing  to  know  the  whole 
truth  ;  to  know  the  worst,  and  to  provide  for  it. 


SPEECH    IN    THE    VIRGINIA    CONVENTION.  291 

I  have  but  one  lamp  by  which  my  feet  are  guided, 
and  that  is  the  lamp  of  experience.  I  know  of  no  way 
of  judging  of  the  future  but  by  the  past.  And,  judging 
by  the  past,  I  wish  to  know  what  there  has  been  in  the 
conduct  of  the  British  Ministry  for  the  last  ten  years 
to  justify  those  hopes  with  which  gentlemen  have  been 
pleased  to  solace  themselves  and  the  House.  Is  it 
that  insidious  smile  with  which  our  petition  has  been 
lately  received?  Trust  it  not,  sir;  it  will  prove  a 
snare  to  your  feet.  Suffer  not  yourselves  to  be  be- 
trayed with  a  kiss.  Ask  yourselves  how  this  gracious 
reception  of  our  petition  comports  with  those  warlike 
preparations  which  cover  our  waters  and  darken  our 
land.  Are  fleets  and  armies  necessary  to  a  work  of 
love  and  reconciliation?  Have  we  shown  ourselves  so 
unwilling  to  be  reconciled  that  force  must  be  called  in 
to  win  back  our  love  ? 

Let  us  not  deceive  ourselves,  sir.  These  are  the 
implements  of  war  and  subjugation,  the  last  arguments 
to  which  kings  resort.  I  ask  gentlemen,  sir,  what 
means  this  martial  array,  if  its  purposes  be  not  to  force 
us  to  submission?  Can  gentlemen  assign  any  other 
possible  motive  for  it  ?  Has  Great  Britain  any  enemy 
in  this  quarter  of  the  world  to  call  for  all  this  accumu- 
lation of  navies  and  armies?  No,  sir,  she  has  none. 
They  are  meant  for  us.  They  can  be  meant  for  no 
other.  They  are  sent  over  to  bind  and  rivet  upon  us 
tliose  chains  which  the  British  Ministry  have  been  so 
long  forging. 

And  what  have  we  to  oppose  them  ?  Shall  we  try 
argument?  Sir,  we  have  been  trying  that  for  the  last 
ten  years.  Have  we  anything  new  to  offer  upon  the 
subject?  Nothing.  We  have  held  the  subject  up  in 
every  light  of  which  it  is  capable ;  but  it  has  been  all 


292  CHOICK    READINGS. 

in  vain.  Shall  we  resort  to  entreaty  and  supplication? 
What  terms  shall  we  find  that  have  not  been  already 
exhausted?  Let  us  not,  I  beseech  you,  sir,  deceive 
ourselves  longer.  Sir,  we  have  done  everything  that 
could  have  been  done  to  avert  the  storm  that  is 
now  coming  on.  We  have  petitioned,  we  have  remon- 
strated, we  have  supplicated,  we  have  prostrated  our- 
selves before  the  throne,  and  have  implored  its  interpo- 
sition to  arrest  the  tyrannical  hands  of  the  Ministry 
and  Parliament. 

Our  petitions  have  been  slighted,  our  remonstrances 
have  produced  additional  violence  and  insult,  our  sup- 
plications have  been  disregarded,  and  we  have  been 
spurned  with  contempt  from  the  foot  of  tlie  throne,, 
In  vain,  after  these  things,  may  we  indulge  the  fond 
hope  of  peace  and  reconciliation.  There  is  no  longer 
any  room  for  hope.  If  we  wish  to  be  free ,  if  we  mean 
to  preserve  inviolate  those  inestimable  privileges  for 
which  we  have  been  so  long  contending;  if  we  mean 
not  basely  to  abandon  the  noble  struggle  in  which  we 
have  been  so  long  engaged,  and  which  we  have  pledged 
ourselves  never  to  abandon  until  the  glorious  object  of 
our  contest  shall  be  obtained,  we  must  fight !  I  repeat 
it,  sir,  we  must  fight !  An  appeal  to  arms  and  to  the 
God  of  hosts  is  all  that  is  left  us. 

They  tell  us,  sir,  that  we  are  weak ;  unable  to  cope 
with  so  formidable  an  adversary.  But  when  shall  we 
be  stronger?  Will  it  be  the  next  week,  or  the  next 
year?  Will  it  be  when  we  are  totally  disarmed,  and 
when  a  British  guard  shall  be  stationed  in  every  house  ? 
Shall  we  gather  strength  by  irresolution  and  inaction  ? 
Shall  we  acquire  the  means  of  effectual  resistance  by 
lying  supinely  on  our  backs,  and  hugging  the  delusive 
phantom  of  hope,  until  our  enemies  shall  have  bound 


SPEECH    OF    VINDICATION.  293 

ns  hand  and  foot?  Sir,  we  are  not  weak  if  we  make  a 
proper  use  of  those  means  which  the  God  of  Nature 
hath  placed  in  our  power. 

Three  millions  of  people  armed  in  the  holy  cause  of 
liberty,  and  in  such  a  country  as  that  which  we  possess, 
are  invincible  by  any  force  which  our  enemy  can  send 
against  us.  Besides,  sir,  we  shall  not  fight  our  battles 
alone.  There  is  a  just  God  who  presides  over  the  des- 
tinies of  nations,  and  who  will  raise  up  friends  to  fight 
our  battles  for  us.  The  battle,  sir,  is  not  to  the  strong 
alone ;  it  is  to  the  vigilant,  the  active,  the  brave.  Be- 
sides, sir,  we  have  no  election.  If  we  were  base  enough 
to  desire  it,  it  is  now  too  late  to  retire  from  the  contest. 
There  is  no  retreat  but  in  submission  and  slavery ! 
Our  chains  are  forged.  Their  clanking  ma}'  be  heard 
on  the  plains  of  Boston !  The  war  is  inevitable,  and 
let  it  come  !     I  repeat,  sir,  let  it  come  ! 

It  is  vain,  sir,  to  extenuate  the  matter.  Gentlemen 
may  cry.  Peace,  peace !  but  there  is  no  peace.  The 
war  is  actually  begun !  The  next  gale  that  sweeps 
from  the  North  will  bring  to  our  ears  the  clash  of 
resounding  arms  !  Our  brethren  are  already  in  the 
field!  Why  stand  we  here  idle?  What  is  it  that  gen- 
tlemen wish?  What  would  they  have  ?  Is  life  so  dear, 
or  peace  so  sweet,  as  to  be  purchased  at  the  price  of 
chains  and  slavery?  Forbid  it,  Alnnghty  God!  I 
know  not  what  course  others  may  take,  but  as  for  me, 
give  me  liberty  or  give  me  death ! 

SPEECH   OF   VINDICATION. 

Robert  Emmett. 

My  Lords:  Wliat  have  I  to  say  why  sentence  of 
death  should  not  be  pronounced  on  me,  according  to 


294  CHOICE    READINGS. 

law  ?  —  I  have  nothing  to  say  that  can  alter  your  pre- 
determmation,  nor  that  it  will  become  me  to  say,  with 
any  view  to  the  mitigation  of  that  sentence  which  you 
are  here  to  j)ronounce,  and  I  must  abide  by.  But  I 
have  that  to  say  which  interests  me  more  than  life, 
and  which  you  have  laboured  to  destroy.  I  have  much 
to  say,  why  my  reputation  should  be  rescued  from  the 
load  of  false  accusation  and  calumu}'  which  has  beeii 
heaped  upon  it. 

Were  I  only  to  suffer  death,  after  being  adjudged 
guilty  by  your  tribunal,  I  should  bow  in  silence,  and 
meet  the  fate  that  awaits  me  without  a  murmur.  The 
man  dies,  but  his  memory  lives.  That  mine  may  not 
perish,  —  that  it  may  live  in  the  respect  of  my  country- 
men, —  I  seize  upon  this  opportunity  to  vindicate  my- 
self from  some  of  the  charges  alleged  against  me. 

I  swear,  by  the  throne  of  Heaven,  before  which  I 
must  shortly  appear,  —  by  the  blood  of  the  murdered 
patriots  who  have  gone  before  me,  —  that  my  conduct 
has  been,  through  all  this  peril,  and  all  my  purposes, 
governed  only  by  the  convictions  which  I  have  uttered, 
and  no  other  view  than  that  of  the  emancipation  of 
my  country  from  the  superinhuman  oppression  under 
which  she  has  so  long,  and  too  patiently,  travailed  ; 
and  that  I  confidently  and  assuredly  hope,  wild  and 
chimerical  as  it  may  ajDpear,  that  there  is  still  union 
and  strength  in  Ireland  to  accomplish  this  noble  en- 
terprise. 

Let  no  man  dare,  when  I  am  dead,  to  charge  me  with 
dishonour  ;  let  no  man  attaint  ]uy  memory  by  believing 
that  I  could  have  engaged  in  any  cause  but  that  of  my 
country's  liberty  and  independence ;  or  that  I  could 
have  become  the  pliant  minion  of  power,  in  the  oppres- 
sion or  the  miseries  of  my  countrymen.     I  would  not 


SPEECH    OF    VINDICATION.  295 

have  submitted  to  a  foreign  oppressor,  for  the  same 
reason  that  I  would  resist  the  domestic  tyrant ;  in  the 
dignity  of  freedom,  I  would  have  fought  upon  the 
threshold  of  my  country,  and  her  enemies  should  enter 
only  by  passing  over  my  lifeless  corpse.  Am  I,  Avho 
lived  but  for  my  country,  and  who  have  subjected  my- 
self to  the  vengeance  of  the  jealous  and  wrathful 
oppressor,  and  to  the  bondage  of  the  grave,  only  to 
give  my  countrymen  their  rights,  —  am  I  to  be  loaded 
with  calunuiy,  and  not  to  be  suffered  to  resent  or  repel 
it  ?     No  !  —  God  forbid  ! 

If  the  spirits  of  the  illustrious  dead  participate  in 
the  concerns  and  cares  of  those  who  are  dear  to  them 
in  this  transitory  hf e,  —  O  ever  dear  and  venerated 
shade  of  my  departed  father,  look  down  with  scrutiny 
on  the  conduct  of  your  sufferuig  son ;  and  see  if  I  have 
even  for  a  moment  deviated  from  those  prmciples  of 
morality  and  patriotism  which  it  was  your  care  to  mstil 
into  my  youthful  mind,  and  for  an  adherence  to  which 
I  am  now  to  offer  up  my  life ! 

My  Lords,  you  are  all  impatient  for  the  sacrifice. 
The  blood  which  you  seek  is  not  congealed  by  the  arti- 
ficial terrors  which  surround  your  victim ;  it  circulates 
warmly  and  unruffled,  tluough  the  channels  which  God 
created  for  noble  purposes,  but  which  you  are  bent  to 
destroy,  for  purposes  so  grievous  that  they  cry  to 
Heaven!  Be  yet  patient!  I  have  but  a  few  words 
more  to  say.  I  am  going  to  my  silent  grave ;  my  lamp 
of  Iffe  is  nearly  extmguished ;  my  race  is  run ;  the 
grave  opens  to  receive  me,  and  I  sink  into  its  bosom.. 
I  have  but  one  request  to  ask  at  my  departure  from 
this  world,  —  it  is  the  charity  of  its  silence.  Let  no 
man  ^^rite  my  epitaph;  for,  as  no  one  who  knows  my 
motives  dare  now  vindicate  them,  let  not  prejudice  or 


296  CHOICE    KEADINGS. 

ignorance  asperse  them.  Let  them  and  me  repose  in 
obscurity  and  peace,  and  my  tomb  remain  uninscribed, 
until  other  times,  and  other  men,  can  do  justice  to  my 
character.  When  my  country  shall  take  her  place 
among  the  nations  of  the  Earth,  then,  and  not  till  then, 
let  my  epitaph  be  written !     I  have  done. 

APPEAL  IN  BEHALF  OF  IEELA2JD. 

S.  S.  Prentiss. 

Fellow-citizens  :  It  is  no  ordinary  cause  that  has 
brought  together  this  vast  assemblage.  We  have  met, 
not  to  prepare  ourselves  for  political  contests ;  we  have 
met,  not  to  celebrate  the  achievements  of  those  gallant 
men  who  have  planted  our  victorious  standards  in  the 
heart  of  an  enemy's  country;  we  have  assembled,  not  to 
respond  to  shouts  of  triumph  from  the  West;  but  to 
answer  the  cry  of  want  and  suffering  which  comes  from 
the  East.  The  Old  World  stretches  out  her  arms  to  the 
New.  The  starving  parent  supplicates  the  young  and 
vigorous  child  for  bread. 

There  lies  upon  the  other  side  of  the  wide  Atlantic  a 
beautiful  island,  famous  in  story  and  in  song.  Its  area 
is  not  so  great  as  that  of  the  State  of  Louisiana,  while 
its  population  is  almost  half  that  of  the  Union.  It  has 
given  to  the  world  more  than  its  share  of  genius  and  of 
greatness.  It  has  been  prolific  in  statesmen,  warriors, 
and  poets.  Its  brave  and  generous  sons  have  fought 
successfully  all  battles  but  their  own.  In  wit  and  hu- 
mour it  has  no  equal ;  while  its  harp,  like  its  history, 
moves  to  tears  by  its  sweet  but  melancholy  pathos. 

Into  this  fair  region  God  has  seen  fit  to  send  the  most 
terrible  of  all  those   fearful   ministers   that  fulfil   His 


APPEAL    IN    BEHALF    OF    IRELAND.  297 

inscrutable  decrees.  The  earth  has  failed  to  give  hei 
increase.  The  common  mother  has  forgotten  her  off- 
spring, and  she  no  longer  affords  them  their  accustomed 
nourishment.  Famine,  gaunt  and  ghastly  famine,  has 
seized  a  nation  with  its  strangling  grasp.  Unhappy 
Ireland,  in  the  sad  woes  of  the  present,  forgets,  for  a 
moment,  the  gloomy  history  of  the  past. 

O,  it  is  terrible  that,  in  this  beautiful  world  which 
the  good  God  has  given  us,  and  in  which  there  is  plenty 
for  us  all,  men  should  die  of  starvation  !  When  a  man 
dies  of  disease  he  alone  endures  the  pain.  Around  his 
pillow  are  gathered  sympathizing  friends,  who,  if  they 
cannot  keej)  back  the  deadly  messenger,  cover  his  face 
and  conceal  the  horrors  of  his  visage  as  he  delivers  his 
stern  mandate.  In  battle,  in  the  fullness  of  his  pride 
and  strength,  little  recks  the  soldier  whether  the  hissing 
bullet  sings  his  sudden  requiem,  or  the  cords  of  life  are 
severed  by  the  sharp  steel. 

But  he  who  dies  of  hunger  wrestles  alone,  day  by  day, 
with  his  grim  and  unrelenting  enemy.  He  has  no 
friends  to  cheer  him  in  the  terrible  conflict ;  for,  if  he 
had  friends,  how  could  he  die  of  hunger  ?  He  has  not 
the  hot  blood  of  the  soldier  to  maintain  him ;  for  his 
foe,  vampire-like,  has  exhausted  his  veins.  Famine 
comes  not  up,  like  a  brave  enemy,  storming,  by  a  sud- 
den onset,  the  fortress  that  resists.  Famine  besieges. 
He  draws  his  lines  round  the  doomed  garrison.  He 
cuts  off  all  supplies.  He  never  summons  to  surrender, 
for  he  gives  no  quarter. 

Alas,  for  poor  human  nature  !  how  can  it  sustain  this 
fearful  warfare  ?  Day  by  day  the  blood  recedes,  the 
flesh  deserts,  the  muscles  relax,  and  the  sinews  grow 
powerless.  At  last  the  mind,  which  at  first  had  bravely 
nerved  itself  against  the  contest,  gives  way  under  the 


298  CHOICE    READINGS. 

mysterious  influences  which  govern  its  union  with  the 
body.  Then  the  victim  begins  to  doubt  the  existence 
of  an  overruling  Providence.  He  hates  his  fellow-men, 
and  glares  upon  them  with  the  longing  of  a  cannibal ; 
and,  it  may  be,  dies  blaspheming. 

This  is  one  of  those  cases  in  wliich  we  may  without 
impiety  assume,  as  it  were,  the  function  of  Providence. 
Who  knows  but  that  one  of  the  very  objects  of  this 
calamity  is  to  test  the  benevolence  and  worthiness  of 
us  upon  whom  unlimited  abundance  is  showered?  In 
the  name,  then,  of  common  humanity,  I  invoke  your 
aid  in  behalf  of  starving  Ireland.  Give  generously  and 
freely.  Recollect  that  in  so  doing  you  are  exercising 
one  of  the  most  God-like  qualities  of  your  nature,  and 
at  the  same  time  enjoying  one  of  the  greatest  luxuries 
of  life.  Go  home  and  look  at  your  family,  smiling  in 
rosy  health,  and  then  think  of  the  pale,  famine-pinched 
cheeks  of  the  poor  children  of  Ireland  ;  and  I  know  you 
will  give,  according  to  your  store,  even  as  a  bountiful 
Providence  has  given  to  you,  —  not  grudgingly,  but 
with  an  open  hand.  He  wlio  is  able,  and  will  not  aid 
such  a  cause,  is  not  a  man,  and  has  no  right  to  wear 
the  form.  He  should  be  sent  back  to  Nature's  mint,  and 
re-issued  as  a  counterfeit  on  humanity  of  Nature's  baser 
metal. 

AMBITION    OF   A   STATESMAN. 

Henrv  Clay. 

I  HAVE  been  accused  of  ambition  in  presenting  this 
measure,  —  ambition,  inordinate  ambition.  If  I  had 
thought  of  myself  only  I  should  have  never  brought 
it  forward.  I  know  well  the  perils  to  which  I  expose 
myself,  —  the    risk    of    alienating   faithful    and  valued 


AMBITION   OF  A    STATESMAN.  299 

friends,  with  but  little  prospect  of  making  new  ones, 
if  any  new  ones  could  compensate  for  the  loss  of  those 
we  have  long  tried  and  loved ;  and  I  know  well  the 
honest  misconception  both  of  friends  and  foes.  Ambi- 
tion !  If  I  had  listened  to  its  soft  and  seducing  whis- 
pers, if  I  had  yielded  myself  to  the  dictates  of  a  cold, 
calculating,  and  ])rudential  j)olicy,  I  would  have  stood 
still  and  unmoved.  I  might  even  have  silently  gazed 
on  the  raging  storm,  enjoyed  its  loudest  thunders,  and 
left  those  who  are  charged  with  the  care  of  the  vessel 
of  State  to  conduct  it  as  they  could. 

I  have  been  heretofore  often  unjustly  accused  of 
ambition.  Low,  grovelling  souls,  who  are  utterly  inca- 
pable of  elevating  themselves  to  the  higher  and  nobler 
duties  of  pure  patriotism,  —  beings  who,  forever  keep- 
ing their  own  selfish  ends  in  view,  decide  all  public 
measures  by  their  presumed  influence  or  their  aggran- 
dizement,—  jndge  me  by  the  venal  rule  which  they  pre- 
scribe to  themselves.  I  have  given  to  the  winds  those 
false  accusations,  as  I  consign  that  which  now  im- 
peaches my  motives.  I  have  no  desire  for  office,  not 
even  the  highest.  The  most  exalted  is  but  a  prison,  in 
which  the  incarcerated  incumbent  daily  receives  his 
cold,  heartless  visitants,  marks  his  weary  hours,  and  is 
cut  off  from  the  practical  enjoyment  of  all  the  bless- 
ings of  genuine  freedom. 

I  am  no  candidate  for  any  office  in  the  gift  of  the 
people  of  these  States,  united  or  separated;  I  never 
wish,  never  expect,  to  be.  Pass  this  bill,  tranquillize 
the  country,  restore  confidence  and  affection  in  the 
Union,  and  I  am  willing  to  go  home  to  Ashland  and 
renounce  public  service  forever.  I  should  there  find 
in  its  groves,  under  its  shades,  on  its  lawns,  'rnid  my 
flocks  and  herds,  in  the  bosom  of  my  family,  sincerity 


300  CHOICE    READINGS. 

and  truth,  attachment  and  fidelity  and  gratitude,  which 
I  have  not  always  found  in  the  walks  of  public  life. 
Yes,  I  have  ambition ;  but  it  is  the  ambition  of  being 
the  humble  instrument,  in  the  hands  of  Providence,  to 
reconcile  a  divided  people ;  once  more  to  revive  con- 
cord and  harmony  in  a  distracted  land,  —  the  pleasing 
ambition  of  contemplating  the  glorious  spectacle  of  a 
free,  united,  prosperous,  and  fraternal  people. 

VALUE   OF  EEPUTATION. 

Charles  Phillips. 

Who  shall  estimate  the  cost  of  a  priceless  reputa- 
tion, that  impress  which  gives  this  human  dross  its 
currency,  without  which  we  stand  despised,  debased, 
depreciated?  Who  shall  repair  it  if  injured?  Who 
can  redeem  it  if  lost?  O,  well  and  truly  does  the 
great  philosopher  of  poetry  esteem  the  world's  wealth 
as  "  trash "  in  the  comparison !  Without  it  gold  has 
no  value ;  birth,  no  distinction ;  station,  no  dignity ; 
beauty,  no  charm ;  age,  no  reverence.  Without  it 
every  treasure  impoverishes,  every  grace  deforms, 
every  dignity  degrades,  and  all  the  arts,  the  decora- 
tions, and  accomplishments  of  life  stand,  like  the  bea- 
con-blaze upon  a  rock,  warning  the  world  that  its 
approach  is  dangerous,  that  its  contact  is  death. 

The  wretch  without  it  is  under  eternal  quarantine  ; 
no  friend  to  greet,  no  home  to  harbour  him.  The  voyage 
of  his  life  becomes  a  joyless  peril ;  and  in  the  midst  of 
all  ambition  can  achieve,  or  avarice  amass,  or  rapacity 
plunder,  he  tosses  on  the  surge,  a  buoyant  pestilence. 
But  let  me  not  degrade  into  the  selfishness  of  individual 
safety  or  individual  exposure  this  universal  principle ; 
it  testifies  a  higher,  a  more  ennobling  origin. 


VALUE    OF    UKPUTATION.  301 

It  is  this  which,  consecrating  the  humble  circle  of 
the  hearth,  will  at  times  extend  itself  to  the  circum- 
ference of  the  horizon,  which  nerves  the  arm  of  the 
patriot  to  save  his  country,  wliich  lights  the  lamp  of 
the  philosopher  to  amend  man,  whicli,  if  it  does  not 
inspire,  will  at  least  invigorate,  the  martyr  to  merit 
immortality,  wliich,  wlien  one  world's  agony  is  passed, 
and  the  glory  of  another  is  dawning,  will  prompt  the 
prophet,  even  in  his  chariot  of  fire,  and  in  his  vision  of 
Heaven,  to  bequeath  to  mankind  the  mantle  of  his 
memory !  O,  divine,  O,  delightful  legacy  of  a  spot- 
less reputation  !  Rich  is  the  inheritance  it  leaves ; 
pious  the  example  it  testifies ;  pure,  precious,  and  im- 
perishable the  example  it  inspires  ! 

Can  there  be  conceived  a  more  atrocious  injury  than 
to  filch  from  its  possessor  this  inestimable  jewel,  to  rob 
society  of  its  charm  and  solitude  of  its  solace  ;  not  only 
to  outlaw  life,  but  to  attaint  death,  converting  the  very 
grave,  the  refuge  of  the  sufferer,  into  the  gate  of  infamy 
and  shame?  I  can  conceive  few  crimes  beyond  it.  He 
who  plunders  my  property  takes  from  me  that  which 
can  be  repaired  by  time  ;  but  what  period  can  repair  a 
rained  reputation  ?  He  who  maims  my  person  affects 
that  which  medicine  may  remedy  ;  but  what  herb  has 
sovereignty  over  the  wounds  of  slander?  He  who  ridi- 
cules my  poverty,  or  reproaches  my  profession,  upbraids 
me  with  that  which  industry  may  retrieve  and  integrity 
may  purify;  but  what  riches  shall  redeem  the  bank- 
rupt fame?  What  power  shall  blanch  the  sullied  snow 
of  character?  There  can  be  no  injury  more  deadly. 
There  can  be  no  crime  more  cruel.  It  is  without 
remedy.  It  is  without  antidote.  It  is  without  eva- 
sion. 

The  reptile,  calumny,  is  ever  on   the  watch.     From 


302  CHOICE    READINGS. 

tlie  fascination  of  its  eye  no  activity  can  escape ;  from 
the  venom  of  its  fang  no  sanity  can  recover.  It  has  no 
enjoyment  but  crime  ;  it  has  no  prey  but  virtue  ;  it  has 
no  interval  from  the  restlessness  of  its  malice,  save 
when,  bloated  with  its  victims,  it  grovels  to  disgorge 
them  at  the  withered  shrine  where  envy  idolizes  her 
own  infirmities. 

TOUSSAINT  L'OUVEETUEE. 

Wendell  Phillips. 

If  I  were  to  tell  you  the  story  of  Napoleon,  I  should 
take  it  from  the  lips  of  Frenchmen,  who  find  no  lan- 
guage rich  enough  to  j)aint  the  great  captain  of  the 
nineteenth  century.  Were  I  to  tell  you  the  story  of 
Washington,  I  should  take  it  from  your  hearts,  —  you, 
who  tliink  no  marble  white  enough  on  which  to  carve 
the  name  of  the  Father  of  his  country.  But  I  am  to 
tell  you  the  story  of  a  negro,  Toussaint  L'Ouverture, 
who  has  left  hardly  one  written  line.  I  am  to  glean  it 
from  the  reluctant  testimony  of  his  enemies,  men  who 
despised  him  because  he  was  a  negro  and  a  slave,  hated 
him  because  he  had  beaten  them  in  battle. 

Cromwell  manufactured  his  own  army.  Napoleon, 
at  the  age  of  twenty-seven,  was  placed  at  the  head  of 
the  best  troops  Europe  ever  saw.  Cromwell  never  saw 
an  army  till  he  was  forty ;  this  man  never  saw  a  soldier 
till  he  was  fifty.  Cromwell  manufactured  his  own 
army  —  out  of  what  ?  Englishmen,  —  the  best  blood  in 
Europe.  Out  of  the  middle  class  of  Englishmen,  —  the 
best  blood  of  the  island.  And  with  it  he  conquered 
what?  Englishmen,  —  their  equals.  This  man  manu- 
factured his  army  out  of  what  ?  Out  of  what  you  call 
the  despicable  race  of  negroes,  debased,  demoralized  by 


TOUSSAINT  l'ouvertdre.  303 

two  hundred  years  of  slavery,  one  hundred  thousand  of 
them  imported  into  the  island  within  four  years,  unable 
to  speak  a  dialect  intelligible  even  to  each  other.  Yet 
out  of  this  mixed,  and,  as  you  say,  despicable  mass  he 
forged  a  thunderbolt  and  hurled  it  at  what  ?  At  the 
proudest  blood  in  Europe,  the  Spaniard,  and  sent  him 
home  conquered ;  at  the  most  warlike  blood  in  Europe, 
the  French,  and  put  them  under  his  feet ;  at  the  pluck- 
iest blood  in  Europe,  the  English,  and  they  skulked 
home  to  Jamaica.  Now,  if  Cromwell  was  a  general,  at 
least  this  man  was  a  soldier. 

Now,  blue-eyed  Saxon,  proud  of  your  race,  go  back 
with  me  to  the  commencement  of  the  century,  and 
select  what  statesman  you  please.  Let  him  be  either 
American  or  European ;  let  him  have  a  brain  the  result 
of  six  generations  of  culture ;  let  him  have  the  ripest 
training  of  university  routine ;  let  him  add  to  it  the 
better  education  of  practical  life ;  crown  his  temples 
with  the  silver  locks  of  seventy  years,  and  show  me  the 
man  of  Saxon  lineage  for  whom  his  most  sanguine  ad- 
mirer will  wreathe  a  laurel,  rich  as  embittered  foes  have 
placed  on  the  brow  of  this  negro,  —  rare  military  skill, 
profound  knowledge  of  human  nature,  content  to  blot 
out  all  party  distinctions,  and  trust  a  State  to  the  blood 
of  its  sons,  —  anticipating  Sir  Robert  Peel  fifty  years, 
and  taking  his  station  by  the  side  of  Roger  Williams, 
before  any  Englishman  or  American  had  won  the  right ; 
and  yet  this  is  the  record  which  the  history  of  rival 
States  makes  up  for  this  inspired  black  of  St.  Domingo. 

Some  doubt  the  courage  of  the  negro.  Go  to  Hayti, 
and  stand  on  those  fifty  thousand  graves  of  the  best 
soldiers  France  ever  had,  and  ask  them  what  they  think 
of  the  negro's  sword. 

I  would  call  him  Napoleon,  but  Napoleon  made  his 


304  CHOICK    KKAIJINGS. 

way  to  empire  over  Ijroken  oaths  and  through  a  sea  o! 
l)lood.  This  man  never  broke  his  word.  I  would  call 
liim  Cromwell,  l)ut  Cromwell  was  only  a  soldier,  and 
the  State  he  founded  went  down  with  him  into  his 
grave.  I  would  call  him  Washington,  but  the  grent 
Virginian  held  slaves.  This  man  risked  his  empire 
rather  than  permit  the  slave-trade  in  the  humblest 
village  of  his  dominions. 

You  think  me  a  fanatic,  for  you  read  history,  not 
with  your  eyes  but  with  your  prejudices.  But  fifty 
years  hence,  when  Truth  gets  a  hearing,  the  Muse  of 
history  will  put  Phocion  for  the  Greek,  Brutus  for  the 
Roman,  Hampden  for  England,  Fayette  for  France, 
choose  Washington  as  the  bright  consummate  flower  of 
our  earlier  civilization,  then,  dipping  her  pen  in  the 
sunlight,  will  write  in  the  clear  blue,  above  them  all, 
the  name  of  the  soldier,  the  statesman,  the  martyr. 
TOUSSAINT   L'OUVERTURE. 

MASSACHUSETTS   AND   SOUTH  OAEOLINA. 

Daniel  Webster. 

I  SHALL  not  acknowledge  that  the  honourable  mem- 
ber goes  before  me  in  regard  for  whatever  of  distin- 
guished talent,  or  distinguished  character.  South  Caro- 
lina has  produced.  I  claim  part  of  the  honour,  I 
partake  in  the  pride,  of  her  great  names.  I  claim  them 
for  countrymen,  one  and  all ;  the  Laurenses,  the  Rut- 
ledges,  the  Pinckneys,  the  Sumpters,  the  Marions, 
Americans  all,  whose  fame  is  no  more  to  be  hemmed  in 
by  State  lines,  than  their  talents  and  patriotism  were 
capable  of  being  circumscribed  within  the  same  narrow 
limits.     In  their  day  and  generation,  they  served  and 


MASSACHUSETTS    AND    SOUTH    CAROLINA.  305 

honouiecl  the  country,  and  the  whole  country;  and 
their  renown  is  of  the  treasures  of  the  whole  country. 
Him  whose  honoured  name  the  gentleman  himself  bears, 
—  does  he  esteem  me  less  capable  of  gratitude  for  his 
patriotism,  or  sympathy  for  his  sufferings,  than  if  his 
eyes  had  first  opened  upon  the  light  of  Massachusetts, 
instead  of  South  Carolina?  Sir,  does  he  suppose  it  in 
his  power  to  exhibit  a  Carolina  name  so  bright  as  to 
produce  envy  in  my  bosom  ? 

No,  Sir,  increased  gratification  and  delight,  rather.  I 
thank  God  that,  if  I  am  gifted  with  little  of  the  spirit 
which  is  able  to  raise  mortals  to  the  skies,  I  have  A'et 
none,  as  I  trust,  of  that  other  spirit  which  would  drag 
Angels  down.  When  I  shall  be  found,  Sir,  in  my  place 
here  in  the  Senate,  or  elsewhere,  to  sneer  at  public 
merit,  because  it  happens  to  spring  up  beyond  the  little 
limits  of  my  own  State  or  neighbourhood ;  when  I  re- 
fuse, for  any  such  cause,  or  for  any  cause,  the  homage 
due  to  American  talent,  to  elevated  patriotism,  to  sin- 
cere devotion  to  liberty  and  the  country;  or,  if  I  see 
an  uncommon  endowment  of  Heaven,  if  I  see  extraor- 
dinary capacity  and  virtue  in  an}'  son  of  the  South,  and 
if,  moved  by  local  prejudice  or  gangrened  by  State  jeal- 
ousy, I  get  up  here  to  abate  the  tithe  of  a  hair  from  liis 
just  character  and  just  fame,  may  my  tongue  cleave  to 
the  roof  of  my  mouth  ! 

Sir,  let  me  recur  to  pleasing  recollections ;  let  me  in- 
dulge in  refreshing  remembrance  of  the  past;  let  me 
remind  you  that,  in  early  times,  no  States  cherished 
greater  liarmony,  both  of  principle  and  feeling,  than 
Massachusetts  and  South  Carolina.  Would  to  God  that 
liarmony  might  again  return !  Shoulder  to  shoulder 
they  went  through  the  Revolution  ;  hand  in  hand  they 
stood  round  the  administration  of  Washington,  and  felt 


30(3  CHOICE    READINGS. 

his  own  great  arm  lean  on  them  for  support.  Unkmd 
feeling,  if  it  exist,  alienation  and  distrust,  are  the 
growth,  unnatural  to  such  soils,  of  false  princiiDles  since 
sown.  They  are  weeds,  the  seeds  of  which  that  same 
great  arm  never  scattered. 

Mr.  President,  I  shall  enter  on  no  encomium  upon 
Massachusetts ;  she  needs  none.  There  she  is :  behold 
her,  and  judge  for  yourselves.  There  is  her  history  ; 
the  world  knows  it  by  heart.  The  past,  at  least,  is  se- 
cure. There  is  Boston,  and  Concord,  and  Lexington, 
and  Bunker  Hill ;  and  there  they  will  remain  for  ever. 
The  bones  of  her  sons,  falling  in  the  great  struggle  for 
Independence,  now  lie  mingled  with  the  soil  of  every 
State  from  New  England  to  Georgia;  and  there  they 
will  lie  for  ever.  And,  Sir,  where  American  Liberty 
raised  its  first  voice,  and  where  its  youth  was  nurtured 
and  sustained,  there  it  still  lives,  in  the  strength  of  its 
manhood  and  full  of  its  original  spirit.  If  discord  and 
disunion  shall  wound  it ;  if  party  strife  and  blind  ambi- 
tion shall  hawk  at  and  tear  it ;  if  folly  and  madness,  if 
uneasiness  under  salutar}^  and  necessary  restraint,  shall 
succeed  in  separating  it  from  that  Union  by  which  alone 
its  existence  is  made  sure ;  it  will  stand,  in  the  end,  by 
the  side  of  that  cradle  in  which  its  infancy  was  rocked ; 
it  will  stretch  forth  its  arm,  with  whatever  of  vigour  it 
may  still  retain,  over  the  friends  wlio  gather  round  it ; 
and  it  will  fall  at  last,  if  fall  it  must,  amidst  the  proud- 
est monuments  of  its  own  glory,  and  on  the  very  spot 
gf  its  origin. 


THE    CHARGE    OF    THE    LIGHT    BRIGADE. 


307 


THE  OHAEGE  OP  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE. 


Alfred  Tennyson. 


Half  a  league,  half  a  league, 
Half  a  league  onward. 

All  in  the  valley  of  death 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Forioard  the  Light  Brigade  ! 

Charge  for  the  guns,  he  said. 

Into  the  valley  of  death 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Forward  the  Light  Brigade  ! 
AVas  there  a  man  dismay'd? 
Not  though  the  soldiers  knew 

Some  one  had  blunder'd. 
Theirs  not  to  make  reply, 
Theii's  not  to  reason  why, 
Theirs  but  to  do  and  die. 
Into  the  valley  of  death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them. 
Cannon  to  left  of  them. 
Cannon  in  front  of  them 

Volley'd  and  thunder'd ; 
Storm'd  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
Boldly  they  rode  and  well, 
Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Into  the  mouth  of  Hell 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Flash'd  all  their  sabres  bare, 
Flash'd  as  they  turn'd  in  air, 


Sabering  the  gunners  there, 
Charging  an  army,  while 

All  the  world  wonder'd  : 
Plunged  in  the  battery-smoke. 
Right    through    the   line    they 

broke ; 
Cossack  and  Russian 
Reel'd  from  the  sabre-stroke 

Shatter'd  and  sunder'd. 
Then  they  rode  back,  but  not, 

Not  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them. 
Cannon  behind  them 

Volley'd  and  thunder'd ; 
Storm'd  at  with  shot  and  shell. 
While  horse  and  hero  fell. 
They  that  had  fought  so  well 
Came  through  the  jaws  of  Death 
Back  fi-om  the  mouth  of  Hell, 
All  that  was  left  of  them, 

Left  of  six  hundred. 

When  can  their  glory  fade  ? 
O,  the  wild  charge  they  made ! 

All  the  world  wonder'd. 
Honour  the  charge  they  made! 
Honour  the  Light  Brigade, 

Noble  Six  Hundred  I 


308  CHOICE   READINGS. 


VII. 
INVECTIVE,  VEHEMENT,   INDIGNANI 


CATILINE'S   DEPIAUOE. 

George  Croly. 

Conscript  Fathers  : 
I  do  not  rise. to  waste  the  uight  in  words  ; 
Let  that  Plebeian  talk,  'tis  not  my  trade  ; 
But  here  I  stand  for  right,  —  let  him  show  proofs,  — 
For  Roman  right,  though  none,  it  seems,  dare  stand 
To  take  their  share  with  me.     A3',  cluster  there ! 
Cling  to  your  master,  judges,  Romans,  slaves  ! 
His  charge  is  false  ;  —  I  dare  him  to  his  proofs. 
You  have  my  answer.     Let  my  actions  speak  ! 

But  this  I  will  avow,  that  I  have  scorn'd. 
And  still  do  scorn,  to  hide  my  sense  of  wrong. 
Who  brands  me  on  the  forehead,  breaks  my  sword, 
Or  laj's  the  bloody  scourge  upon  my  back, 
Wrongs  me  not  half  so  much  as  he  who  shuts 
The  gates  of  honour  on  me,  —  turning  out 
The  Roman  from  his  birthright ;  and  for  what  ? 
To  fling  your  offices  to  ever}'  slave  ! 
Vipers,  that  creep  where  man  disdains  to  climb. 
And,  having  wound  their  loathsome  track  to  the  top 
Of  this  huge,  mouldering  moiiuin(>nt  of  Rome, 
Hang  hissing  at  the  nobler  man  below.      [T'o  the  Senate. 

Come,  consecrated  Lictors,  from  youv  thrones  ; 
Fling  down  30ur  sceptres  ;  take  the  rod  and  axe, 
And  make  the  murder  as  you  make  the  law. 


Catiline's  defiance.  309 

Banish'd  from  Rome  !     What's  banish'd  but  set  free 
From  daily  contact  of  the  things  I  loathe  ? 
"  Tried  and  convicted  traitor  !  "     "Who  says  this? 
Who'll  prove 'it,  at  his  peril,  on  my  head? 
Banish'd  !     I  thank  you  for't :  it  breaks  my  chain  ! 
I  held  some  slack  allegiance  till  this  hour ; 
But  now  my  sword's  my  own.     Smile  on,  my  Lords ! 
I  scorn  to  count  what  feelings,  wither'd  hopes, 
Strong  provocations,  bitter,  burning  wrongs, 
I  have  within  my  heart's  hot  cells  shut  up, 
To  leave  j^ou  in  your  lazy  dignities. 
But  here  1  stand  and  scoff  you  !  here    I  fling 
Hatred  and  full  defiance  in  your  face  ! 
Your  Consul's  merciful ;  —  for  this  all  thanks. 
He  dares  not  touch  a  hair  of  Catiline  ! 

"  Traitor  !  "     I  go  ;  but,  I  return  !     This  —  trial ! 
Here  I  devote  your  Senate  !     I've  had  wrongs 
To  stir  a  fever  in  the  blood  of  age, 
Or  make  the  infant's  sinews  strong  as  steel. 
This  day's  the  birth  of  sorrow  ;  this  hour's  work 
Will  breed  proscriptions  !     Look  to  3'our  healths,  m}'  Lords  ! 
For  there,  henceforth,  shall  sit,  for  household  gods. 
Shapes  hot  from  Tartarus  ;  all  shames  and  crimes  ; 
Wan  Treacher}',  with  his  thirsty  dagger  drawn  ; 
Suspicion,  poisoning  his  brother's  cup ; 
Naked  Rebellion,  with  the  torch  and  axe, 
Making  his  wild  sport  of  your  blazing  thrones ; 
Till  Anarchy  comes  down  on  you  like  night. 
And  Massacre  seals  Rome's  eternal  grave. 

I  go  ;  but  not  to  leap  the  gulf  alone. 
I  go ;  but  when  I  come,  'twill  l)e  the  burst 
Of  ocean  in  the  earthquake,  —  rolling  back 
In  swift  and  mountainous  ruin.     Fare  you  well ! 
You  build  my  funeral  pile  ;  but  your  best  blood 
Shall  quench  its  flame  !     Back,  slaves  !     [To  the  Lictors. 
I  will  return. 


310  CHOICE   READINGS. 

SPAETAOUS  TO  THE  GLADIATOES  AT  OAPUA. 

Ye  call  me  chief;  and  ye  do  well  to  call  him  chief 
who  for  twelve  long  years  has  met  upon  the  arena  every 
shape  of  man  or  beast  the  broad  Empire  of  Rome  could 
furnish,  and  who  never  yet  lowered  his  arm.  If  there  be 
one  among  you  who  can  say  that  ever,  in  public  fight  or 
private  brawl,  my  actions  did  belie  my  tongue,  let  him 
stand  forth  and  say  it.  If  there  be  three  in  all  your 
company  dare  face  me  on  the  bloody  sands,  let  them 
come  on.  And  yet  I  was  not  always  thus, — a  hired 
butcher,  a  savage  chief  of  still  more  savage  men.  My 
ancestors  came  from  old  Sparta,  and  settled  among  the 
vine-clad  rocks  and  citron  groves  of  Syrasella.  My  early 
life  ran  quiet  as  the  brooks  by  which  I  sported ;  and 
when,  at  noon,  I  gathered  the  sheep  beneath  the  shade, 
and  played  upon  the  shepherd's  flute,  there  was  a  friend, 
the  son  of  a  neighbour,  to  join  me  in  the  pastime.  We 
led  our  flocks  to  the  same  pasture,  and  partook  together 
our  rustic  meal. 

One  evening,  after  the  sheep  were  folded,  and  we 
were  all  seated  beneath  the  myrtle  which  shaded  our 
cottage,  my  grandsire,  an  old  man,  was  telling  of  Mara- 
thon and  Leuctra;  and  how,  in  ancient  times,  a  little 
band  of  Spartans,  in  a  defile  of  the  mountains,  had  with- 
stood a  whole  army.  I  did  not  then  know  what  war 
was;  but  my  cheeks  burned,  I  know  not  why,  and  I 
clasped  the  knees  of  that  venerable  man,  until  my 
mother,  parting  the  hair  from  off  my  forehead,  kissed 
my  throbbing  temples,  and  bade  me  go  to  rest,  'and 
think  no  more  of  those  old  tales  and  savage  wars. 

That  very  night  the  Romans  landed  on  our  coast.  I 
saw  the  breast  that  had  nourished  me  trampled  by  the 
hoof  of  the  war-horse,  —  the  bleeding  body  of  my  father 


SPARTACUS    TO    THE    GLADIATORS    AT   CAPUA.  311 

flung  amidst  the  blazing  rafters  of  our  dwelling !  To- 
day I  killed  a  man  in  the  arena ;  and,  when  I  broke  his 
helmet-clasps,  behold !  he  was  my  friend.  He  knew  me, 
smiled  faintly,  gasped,  and  died ;  —  the  same  sweet 
smile  upon  his  lips  that  I  had  marked,  when,  in  adven- 
turous boyhood,  we  scaled  the  lofty  cliff  to  pluck  the 
first  ripe  grapes,  and  bear  them  home  in  childish 
triumph!  I  told  the  praetor  that  the  dead  man  had 
been  my  friend,  generous  and  brave  ;  and  I  begged  that 
I  might  bear  away  the  body,  to  burn  it  on  a  funeral 
pile,  and  mourn  over  its  ashes.  Ay !  upon  my  knees, 
amid  the  dust  and  blood  of  the  arena,  I  begged  that 
poor  boon,  while  all  the  assembled  maids  and  matrons, 
and  the  holy  virgins  they  call  Vestals,  and  the  rabble, 
shouted  in  derision,  deeming  it  rare  sport,  forsooth,  to 
see  Rome's  fiercest  gladiator  turn  pale  and  tremble  at 
sight  of  that  piece  of  bleeding  clay !  And  the  prictor 
drew  back  as  if  I  were  pollution,  and  sternly  said,  "  Let 
the  carrion  rot ;  there  are  no  noble  men  but  Romans." 

And  so,  fellow-gladiators,  must  you,  and  so  must  I, 
die  like  dogs.  O,  Rome !  Rome  I  thou  hast  been  a 
tender  nurse  to  me.  Ay!  thou  hast  given  to  that  poor, 
gentle,  timid  shepherd  lad,  who  never  knew  a  harsher 
tone  than  a  flute-note,  muscles  of  iron  and  a  heart  of 
flint;  taught  him  to  drive  the  sword  through  plaited 
mail  and  links  of  rugged  brass,  and  warm  it  in  the  mar- 
row of  his  foe ;  —  to  gaze  into  the  glaring  eyeballs  of 
the  fierce  Numidian  lion,  even  as  a  boy  upon  a  laughing 
girl!  And  he  shall  pay  thee  back,  until  the  yellow 
Tiber  is  red  as  frothing  wine,  and  in  its  deepest  ooze 
thy  life-blood  lies  curdled ! 

Ye  stand  here  now  like  giants,  as  ye  are !  The 
strength  of  brass  is  in  your  tougliened  sinews,  but  to- 
morrow some  Roman  Adonis,  breathing  sweet  perfume 


312  CHOICE    READINGS. 

from  his  curly  locks,  shall  Avith  his  lily  fingers  pat  your 
red  brawn,  and  bet  his  sesterces  upon  your  blood. 
Hark  !  hear  ye  yon  lion  roaring  in  his  den  ?  'Tis  three 
days  since  he  has  tasted  flesh ;  but  to-morrow  he  shall 
break  his  fast  upon  yours,  —  and  a  dainty  meal  for  him 
ye  will  be ! 

If  ye  are  beasts,  then  stand  here  like  fat  oxen,  wait- 
ing for  the  butcher's  knife  !  If  ye  are  men,  follow  me  ! 
Strike  down  yon  guard,  gain  the  mountain  passes,  and 
then  do  bloody  work,  as  did  your  sires  at  old  Ther- 
mopylae !  Is  Sparta  dead  ?  Is  the  old  Grecian  spirit 
frozen  in  your  veins,  that  you  do  crouch  and  cower 
like  a  belaboured  hound  beneath  his  master's  lash?  O, 
comrades !  warriors  I  Thracians !  if  we  must  fight,  let 
us  fight  for  ourselves !  If  we  must  slaughter,  let  us 
slaughter  our  oppressors  !  If  we  must  die,  let  it  be 
under  the  clear  sky,  by  the  bright  waters,  in  noble, 
honourable  battle  ! 

MAEMION  AND  DOUGLAS. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 

The  train  from  out  the  castle  drew, 
But  Mannion  stopp'd  to  bid  adieu  : 

"  Though  something  I  might  plain,"  he  said, 
"  Of  cold  respect  to  stranger  guest, 
Sent  hither  by  ^our  king's  behest. 

"While  in  Tantallon's  towers  I  stay'd, 
Part  we  in  friendship  from  your  land, 
And,  noble  Earl,  receive  my  hand." 

But  Douglas  round  him  drew  his  cloak, 
Fohhd  his  arms,  and  thus  he  spoke  : 
"  My  manors,  halls,  and  bowers  shall  still 
Be  open,  at  my  sovereign's  will, 
To  each  one  whom  he  lists,  howe'er 


MAKMION    AND    DOUGLAS.  iil3 

Unmeet  to  be  the  owner's  peer. 
My  castles  are  my  king's  alone 
From  turret  to  foundation-stone  ; 
The  hand  of  Douglas  is  his  own, 
And  never  shall  in  friendly  grasp 
The  hand  of  such  as  Marmion  clasp." 

Buru'd  Marmion' s  swarthy  cheek  like  fire, 
And  shook  his  ver}'  frame  for  ire, 
And,  "  This  to  me  !  "  he  said  \^ 
"An  'twere  not  for  thy  hoai'y  heard, 
Such  hand  as  Marmion's  liad  not  spared 

To  cleave  the  Douglas'  head  ! 
And,  first,  I  tell  thee,  haughty  Peer, 
He  who  does  England's  message  here. 
Although  the  meanest  in  her  State, 
May  well,  proud  Angus,  be  thy  mate : 
And,  Douglas,  more  1  tell  thee  here, 

Even  in  thy  pitch  of  pride. 
Here  in  thy  hold,  thy  vassals  near, 
(Nay,  never  look  upon  your  lord. 
And  lay  your  hands  upon  your  sword,) 

I  tell  thee,  thou'rt  defied  ! 
And,  if  thou  said'st  I  am  not  peer 
To  any  lord  in  Scotland  here. 
Lowland  or  Highland,  far  or  near, 

Lord  Angus,  thou  hast  lied  !  " 

On  the  Earl's  cheek  the  flush  of  rage 
O'ercame  the  ashen  hue  of  age  ; 
Fierce  he  broke  forth,  "And  darcst  thou  then 
To  beard  the  lion  in  his  den. 

The  Douglas  in  his  hall? 
And  hopest  thou  hence  unscathed  to  go? 
No,  by  Saint  Bride  of  Bothwell,  no  ! 
Up  drawbridge,  grooms,  —  what,  Warder,  ho ! 
Let  the  portcullis  fall." 


314  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Lord  Marmion  tarn'd,  —  well  was  his  need  I 
And  dash'd  the  rowels  in  his  steed, 
Like  arrow  through  the  archway  sprung ; 
The  ponderous  gate  behind  him  rung : 
To  pass  there  was  such  scanty  room, 
The  bars,  descending,  razed  his  plume. 

The  steed  along  the  drawbridge  flies, 
Just  as  it  trembled  on  the  rise  ; 
Not  lighter  does  the  swallow  skim 
Along  the  smooth  lake's  level  brim  ; 
And,  when  Lord  Marmion  reach'd  his  band, 
He  halts,  and  turns  with  clenched  hand, 
And  shout  of  loud  defiance  pours, 
And  shook  his  gauntlet  at  the  towers. 


<>>»<€ 


THE  SEMINOLE'S  EEPLY 

George  W.  Patten. 

Blaze,  with  3'our  serried  columns ! 

I  will  not  bend  the  knee  ! 
The  shackles  ne'er  again  shall  bind 

The  arm  which  now  is  free. 
I've  mail'd  it  with  the  thunder, 

When  the  tempest  mutter'd  low  ; 
And,  where  it  falls,  ye  well  may  dread 

The  lightning  of  its  blow  ! 

I've  scared  ye  in  the  city, 

I've  scalp'd  ye  on  the  plain ; 
Go,  count  your  chosen,  where  they  fell 

Beneath  my  leaden  rain  ! 
I  scorn  your  proffer'd  treaty  ! 

The  pale-face  I  defy  ! 
Revenge  is  stamp'd  upon  my  spear, 

And  blood's  my  battle  cry  I 


HORRORS    OF   SAVACK    WARl  ARE.  ^1^ 

Some  strike  for  hope  of  booty, 

Some  to  defend  their  all ; 
I  battle  for  the  joy  I  have 

To  see  the  white  man  fall : 
I  love,  among  the  wounded, 

To  hear  his  dying  moan, 
And  catch,  while  chanting  at  his  side, 

The  music  of  his  groan. 

Ye've  trail'd  me  through  the  forest, 

Ye've  track'd  me  o'er  the  stream  ; 
And,  struggling  through  the  everglade. 

Your  bristling  bayonets  gleam  ; 
But  I  stand  as  should  the  warrior, 

With  his  rifle  and  his  spear ; 
The  scalp  of  vengeance  still  is  red, 

And  warns  ye,  —  Come  not  here  I 

I  loathe  ye  in  my  bosom, 

I  scorn  ye  with  mine  eye, 
And  I'll  taunt  ye  with  my  latest  breath. 

And  fight  ye  till  I  die  ! 
I  ne'er  will  ask  ye  quarter, 

And  I  ne'er  will  be  your  slave  ; 
But  I'll  swim  the  sea  of  slaughter, 

Till  I  sink  beneath  its  wave  I 


HOBEOES  or  SAVAGE  WAEFAEE. 

William  Pitt,  Earl  of  Chatham. 

I  AJ.  astonished,  shocked,  to  hear  such  prin«pl;^  "^^ 
fessed,  to  hear  them  avowed  in  tins  House,  o  even  m 
Sr  country!  principles  eciually  unconst.tutu.nal,  m- 
biiTTinn    and  unchristian  I 

Sy  LoU  I  did  not  intend  to  trespass  agam  upon 
your  attention,  but  I  cannot  repress  n>y  n^dignaUou,  - 


316  CHOICE    READINGS. 

I  feel  myself  impelled  by  every  duty.  We  are  called 
upon  as  members  of  this  House,  as  men,  as  Christian 
men,  to  protest  against  such  notions,  standing  near  the 
throne,  polluting  the  ear  of  Majesty.  "  That  God  and 
Nature  put  into  our  hands  !  "  *  I  know  not  what  ideas 
that  Lord  may  entertain  of  God  and  Nature  ;  but  I 
know  that  such  abominable  principles  are  equally  ab- 
liorrent  to  religion  and  humanity. 

What !  attribute  the  sacred  sanction  of  God  and 
Nature  to  the  massacres  of  the  Indian  scalping-knife, 
—  to  the  cannibal  savage,  torturing,  murdering,  roast- 
ing, and  eating,  —  literally,  my  Lords,  eating  the  man- 
gled victims  of  his  barbarous  battles !  Such  horrible 
notions  shock  every  precept  of  religion  revealed  or 
natural,  and  every  generous  feeling  of  humanity ;  and, 
my  Lords,  they  shock  every  sentiment  of  honour ,  they 
shock  me  as  a  lover  of  honourable  war,  and  a  detester 
of  murderous  barbarity. 

These  abominable  principles,  and  this  more  abomi- 
nable avowal  of  them,  demand  the  most  decisive  indig- 
nation. I  call  upon  the  Right-Reverend  Bench,  those 
holy  ministers  of  the  Gospel,  and  pious  pastors  of  our 
Church,  —  I  conjure  them  to  join  in  the  holy  work,  and 
to  vindicate  the  religion  of  their  God.  I  appeal  to  the 
wisdom  and  the  law  of  this  Learned  Bench  to  defend 
and  support  the  justice  of  their  country.  I  call  upon 
the  Bishops  to  interpose  the  unsullied  sanctity  of  their 
lawn,  upon  the  learned  Judges  to  interpose  the  purity 
of  their  ermine,  to  save  us  from  this  pollution.  I  call 
upon  the  honour  of  your  Lordships  to   reverence   the 

*  Lord  Suffolk,  one  of  the  Secretaries  of  State,  defending  the  employ- 
ment of  Indians  in  the  American  war,  had  declared,  in  the  House  of  Lords, 
that  "  it  was  perfectly  justifiable  to  use  all  the  means  that  God  and  Nature 
put  into  our  hands." 


HORRORS  OF  SAVAGE  WARFARE.  317 

dignity  of  your  ancestors,  and  to  maintain  your  own. 
I  call  upon  the  spirit  and  humanity  of  my  country  to 
vindicate  the  national  character.  I  invoke  the  genius  of 
the  Constitution. 

From  the  tapestry  that  adorns  these  walls,  the  immor- 
tal ancestor  of  this  noble  Lord  frowns  with  indignation 
at  the  disgrace  of  his  country  !  In  vain  he  led  your  vic- 
torious fleets  against  the  boasted  Armada  of  Spain ;  in 
vain  he  defended  and  established  the  honour,  the  lib- 
erties, the  religion,  the  Protestant  religion  of  his  coun- 
try, against  the  arbitrary  cruelties  of  Popery  and  the 
Inquisition,  if  these  worse  than  popish  and  inquisitorial 
practices  are  let  loose  amongst  us,  to  turn  forth  into  our 
settlements,  among  our  ancient  friends  and  relations, 
the  merciless  cannibal,  thirsting  for  the  blood  of  man, 
woman,  and  child. 

To  send  forth  the  infidel  savage,  —  against  whom? 
Against  your  Protestant  brethren !  to  lay  waste  their 
country,  to  desolate  their  dwellings,  and  extirpate  their 
race  and  name,  with  these  horrible  hell-hounds  of  savage 
war!  —  hell-hounds,  I  say,  of  savage  war!  Spain  armed 
herself  with  blood-hounds  to  extirpate  the  wretched 
natives  of  America ;  and  we  improve  on  the  inhuman 
example  of  even  Spanish  cruelty :  we  turn  loose  these 
savage  hell-hounds  against  our  brethren  and  country- 
men in  America,  of  the  same  language,  laws,  liberties, 
and  religion ;  endeared  to  us  by  every  tie  that  should 
sanctify  humanity. 

My  Lords,  this  awful  subject,  so  important  to  our 
honour,  our  Constitution,  and  our  religion,  demands 
the  most  solemn  and  effectual  incpiiry.  And  I  again 
call  upon  your  Lordships,  and  tlie  united  powers  of  the 
State,  to  examine  it  thoroughly  and  decisively,  and  to 
stamp  upon  it  an  indelible  stigma  of  the  public  abhor- 


318  CHOICE    READINGS. 

rence.  And  I  again  implore  those  holy  prelates  of  our 
religion  to  do  away  these  iniquities  from  among  us.  Let 
them  perform  a  lustration ;  let  them  purify  this  House 
and  this  country  from  this  sin. 

My  Lords,  I  am  old  and  weak,  and  at  present  unable 
to  say  more ;  but  my  feelings  and  my  indignation  were 
too  strong  to  have  said  less.  I  could  not  have  slept  this 
night  in  my  bed,  or  have  reposed  my  head  on  my  pillow, 
without  giving  this  vent  to  my  eternal  abhorrence  of 
such  preposterous  and  enormous  principles. 


AEEAIGNMENT  OP  MINISTERS. 

Edmund  Burke. 

I  CONFESS  I  feel  a  degree  of  disgust,  almost  leading 
to  despair,  at  the  manner  in  which  we  are  acting  in  the 
great  exigencies  of  our  country.  There  is  now  a  bill 
in  this  House,  appointing  a  rigid  inquisition  into  the 
minutest  detail  of  our  offices  at  home.  The  collection 
of  sixteen  millions  annually,  —  a  collection  on  which 
the  public  greatness,  safety,  and  credit  have  their  reli- 
ance ;  the  whole  order  of  criminal  jurisjorudence,  whicli 
holds  together  society  itself,  —  has  at  no  time  obliged  us 
to  call  forth  such  powers ;  no,  nor  any  thing  like  them. 
There  is  not  a  principle  of  the  law  and  Constitution  of 
this  country  that  is  not  subverted  to  favour  tlie  execu- 
tion of  that  project. 

And  for  what  is  all  this  apparatus  of  bustle  and 
terror?  Is  it  because  any  thing  substantial  is  expected 
from  it?  No.  The  stir  and  bustle  itself  is  the  end 
proposed.  The  eye-servants  of  a  short-sighted  master 
will  employ  themselves,  not  on  what  is  most  essential  to 
his  affairs,  but  on  what  is  nearest  to  his  ken.     Great 


ARRAIGNMENT    OF    MINISTERS.  319 

difficulties  have  given  a  just  value  to  economy ;  and  our 
Minister  of  the  day  must  be  an  economist,  whatever  it 
may  cost  us.  But  where  is  he  to  exert  his  talents  ?  At 
home,  to  be  sure ;  for  where  else  can  he  obtain  a  profit- 
able credit  for  their  exertion  ?  It  is  nothing  to  him, 
whether  the  object  on  wliich  he  works  under  our  eye  be 
promising  or  not.  If  he  does  not  obtain  any  public 
benefit,  he  may  make  regulations  without  end.  Those 
are  sure  to  pay  in  present  expectation,  whilst  the  effect 
is  at  a  distance,  and  may  be  the  concern  of  other  times 
and  other  men. 

On  these  principles  he  chooses  to  suppose  (for  he  does 
not  pretend  more  than  to  suppose)  a  naked  possibility, 
that  he  shall  draw  some  resource  out  of  crumbs  dropped 
from  the  trenchers  of  penury;  that  something  shall  be 
laid  in  store  from  the  short  allowance  of  revenue  offi- 
cers, overladen  with  duty,  and  famished  for  want  of 
bread.  From  the  marrowless  bones  of  these  skeleton 
establishments,  by  the  use  of  every  sort  of  cutting  and 
every  sort  of  fretting  tool,  he  flatters  himself  that  he 
may  chip  and  rasp  an  empirical  alimentary  powder,  to 
diet  into  some  similitude  of  health  and  substance  the 
lang-uishinff  chimeras  of  fraudulent  reformation. 

Whilst  he  is  thus  employed  according  to  his  policy 
and  to  his  taste,  he  has  not  leisure  to  inquire  into  those 
abuses  in  India  that  are  drawing  off  money  by  millions 
from  the  treasures  of  this  country,  and  are  exhausting 
the  vital  juices  from  members  of  the  State,  where  the 
public  inanition  is  far  more  sorely  felt  than  in  the  local 
exchequer  of  England.  Not  content  with  winking  at 
these  abuses,  whilst  he  attempts  t(j  squeeze  the  labo- 
rious, ill-paid  drudges  of  English  revenue,  he  lavishes 
in  one  act  of  corrupt  prodigality,  u[)()n  those  who  never 
served  the  public  in  any  honest  occupation  at  all,  an 


320  CHOICE   READINGS. 

annual  income  equal  to  two-thirds  of  the  whole  collec 
tion  of  the  revenues  of  this  kingdom. 

Actuated  by  the  same  principle  of  choice,  he  has  now 
on  the  anvil  another  scheme,  full  of  difliculty  and  des- 
perate hazard,  which  totally  alters  the  commercial  rela- 
tion of  two  kingdoms ;  and,  what  end  soever  it  shall 
have,  may  bequeath  a  legacy  of  heart-burning  and  dis- 
content to  one  of  the  countries,  perhaps  to  both,  to  be 
perpetuated  to  the  latest  posterity.  This  project  is  also 
undertaken  on  the  hope  of  profit.  It  is  provided  that, 
out  of  some  (I  know  not  what)  remains  of  the  Irish 
hereditary  revenue,  a  fund  at  some  time,  and  of  some 
sort,  should  be  applied  to  the  protection  of  the  Irish 
trade. 

Here  we  are  commanded  again  to  task  our  faith,  and 
to  persuade  ourselves  that,  out  of  the  surjDlus  of  defi- 
ciency, out  of  the  savings  of  habitual  and  systematic 
})rodigality,  the  Minister  of  wonders  will  provide  sup- 
port for  this  nation,  sinking  under  the  mountainous 
load  of  two  hundred  and  thirty  millions  of  debt.  But 
whilst  we  look  with  pain  at  his  desperate  and  laborious 
trifling,  whilst  we  are  apprehensive  that  he  will  break 
his  back  in  stooping  to  pick  up  chaff  and  straws,  he 
recovers  himself  at  an  elastic  bound,  and,  with  a  broad- 
cast swing  of  his  arm,  he  squanders  over  his  Indian  field 
a  sum  far  greater  than  the  clear  produce  of  the  whole 
hereditary  revenue  of  the  kingdom  of  Ireland. 

Strange  as  this  scheme  of  conduct  in  Ministry  is,  and 
inconsistent  with  all  just  policy,  it  is  still  true  to  itself, 
and  faithful  to  its  own  perverted  order.  Tliose  who  are 
bountiful  to  crimes  will  be  rigid  to  merit,  and  penurious 
to  service.  Their  penury  is  even  held  out  as  a  blind 
and  cover  to  their  prodigality.  The  economy  of  injus- 
tice is,  to  furnish  resources  for  the  fund  of  corruption. 


REVOLUTIONAUY    DESPKUADOES.  321 

Then  they  pay  off  their  protection  to  great  crimes  and 
great  criminals,  by  being  inexorable  to  the  paltry  frail- 
ties of  little  men  ;  and  these  modern  flagellants  are  sure, 
with  a  rigid  fidelity,  to  whip  their  own  enormities  on  the 
vicarious  back  of  every  small  offender. 

EEVOLUTIONAEY    DESPERADOES. 

Sir  James  Mackintosh. 

The  French  Revolution  began  with  great  and  fatal 
errors.  These  errors  produced  atrocious  crimes.  A 
mild  and  feeble  monarch}^  was  succeeded  by  a  bloody 
anarchy,  which  very  shortly  gave  birth  to  military  des- 
potism. France,  in  a  few  years,  described  the  whole 
circle  of  human  society.  All  this  was  in  the  order  of 
Nature.  When  every  principle  Avhich  enables  some 
men  to  command,  and  disposes  others  to  obey,  was  ex- 
tirpated from  the  mind  by  atrocious  theories,  and  still 
more  atrocious  examples ;  when  ever}'-  old  institution 
was  trampled  down  with  contumely,  and  every  new 
institution  was  covered  in  its  cradle  with  blood ;  there 
remained  only  one  principle  strong  enough  to  hold 
society  together,  —  a  principle  utterly  incompatible,  in- 
deed, with  liberty,  and  unfriendly  to  civilization  itself, 
—  a  tyrannical  and  barbarous  principle,  but,  in  that 
miserable  condition  of  human  affairs,  a  refuge  from  still 
more  intolerable  evils;  —  I  mean  the  principle  of  mili- 
tary power,  wliich  gains  strength  from  that  confusion 
and  bloodshed  in  which  all  other  elements  of  society 
are  dissolved,  and  which,  in  these  terrible  extremities, 
is  the  cement  that  preserves  it  from  total  destruction. 

Under  such  circumstances,  Buojiaparte  usurped  the 
supreme  power  in  France  ;  —  I  say  usurped,  because  an 


322  CHOICE    HEADINGS. 

illegal  assumption  of  power  is  an  usurpation.  Rut  usur- 
pation^ in  its  strongest  moral  sense,  is  scarcely  applica- 
ble to  a  period  of  lawless  and  savage  anarchy.  But, 
though  the  government  of  Buonaparte  has  silenced  the 
Revolutionary  factions,  it  has  not  extinguished  thenio 
No  human  power  could  re-impress  upon  the  minds  of 
men  all  those  sentiments  and  opinions  which  the  soph- 
istry and  anarchy  of  fourteen  years  had  obliterated. 

As  for  the  wretched  populace  who  were  made  the 
blind  and  senseless  instrument  of  so  many  crimes, — 
whose  frenzy  can  now  be  reviewed  by  a  good  mind, 
with  scarcely  any  moral  sentiment  but  that  of  compas- 
sion, —  that  miserable  multitude  of  beings,  scarcely  hu- 
man, have  already  fallen  into  a  brutish  forgetfulness  of 
the  very  atrocities  which  they  themselves  perpetrated. 
They  have  passed  from  senseless  rage  to  stupid  quiet : 
their  delirium  is  followed  by  lethargy. 

In  a  word.  Gentlemen,  the  great  body  of  the  people 
of  France  have  been  severely  trained  in  those  convul- 
sions and  proscriptions  which  are  the  school  of  slavery. 
They  are  capable  of  no  mutinous,  and  even  of  no  bold 
and  manly  political  sentiments.  But  it  is  otherwise 
with  those  who  have  been  the  actors  and  leaders  in  the 
scene  of  blood :  it  is  otherwise  with  the  numerous  agents 
of  the  most  indefatigable,  searching,  multiform,  and  om- 
nipresent tyranny  that  ever  existed,  which  pervaded 
every  class  of  society,  —  which  had  ministers  and  vic- 
tims in  every  village  in  France. 

Some  of  them,  indeed, —  the  basest  of  the  race, — 
the  Sopliists,  the  Rhetors,  the  Poet-laureates  of  mur- 
der, who  were  cruel  only  from  cowardice  and  calculat- 
ing selfishness,  are  perfectly  willing  to  transfer  their 
venal  pens  to  any  government  that  does  not  disdain 
their  infamous  support.     These  men,  republicans  from 


REVOLUTIONARY    DESPERADOES.  323 

servility,  who  published  rhetorical  panegyrics  on  mas- 
sacre, and  who  reduced  plunder  to  a  system  of  ethics, 
are  as  ready  to  preach  slavery  as  anarchy. 

But  the  more  daring  —  I  had  almost  said  the  more 
respectable  —  ruffians  cannot  so  easily  bend  their  heads 
under  the  yoke.  These  fierce  spirits  leave  the  luxuries 
of  servitude  to  the  mean  and  dastardly  hypocrites,  — 
to  the  Belials  and  Mammons  of  the  infernal  faction. 
They  pursue  their  old  end  of  tyranny  under  their 
old  pretext  of  liberty.  The  recollections  of  their  un- 
bounded power  renders  every  inferior  condition  irksome 
and  vapid ;  and  their  former  atrocities  form,  if  I  may  so 
speak,  a  sort  of  moral  destiny  which  irresistibly  impels 
them  to  the  perpetration  of  new  crimes.  They  have 
no  place  left  for  penitence  on  Earth :  they  labour  under 
the  most  awful  proscription  of  opinion  that  ever  was 
pronounced  against  human  beings :  they  have  cut  down 
every  bridge  by  which  they  could  retreat  into  the  so- 
ciety of  men. 

Awakened  from  their  dream  of  democracy,  —  the 
noise  subsided  that  deafened  their  ears  to  the  voice  of 
humanity,  —  the  film  fallen  from  their  eyes  which  hid 
from  them  the  blackness  of  their  own  deeds,  —  haunted 
by  the  memory  of  their  inexpiable  guilt,  —  condemned 
daily  to  look  on  the  faces  of  those  whom  their  hand 
has  made  widows  and  orphans,  —  they  are  goaded  and 
scourged  by  these  real  furies,  and  hurried  into  the 
tumult  of  new  crimes,  to  drown  the  cries  of  remorse, 
or,  if  they  be  too  depraved  for  remorse,  to  silence  the 
curses  of  mankind.  Tyrannical  power  is  their  only  ref- 
uge from  the  just  vengeance  of  their  fellow-creatures : 
murder  is  their  only  means  of  usurping  power.  They 
have  no  taste,  no  occupation,  no  pursuit,  but  power  and 
blood.     If  their  hands  are  tied,  they  must  at  least  have 


324  CHOICE   READINGS. 

the  luxury  of  murderous  projects.  They  have  drunk 
too  deeply  of  human  blood  ever  to  relmquish  their  can- 
nibal appetite. 

Such  a  faction  exists  in  France :  it  is  numerous ;  it  is 
powerful;  and  it  has  a  principle  of  fidelity  stronger 
than  any  that  ever  held  together  a  society.  They  are 
banded  together  by  despair  of  forgiveness,  —  by  the 
unanimous  detestation  of  mankind.  They  are  now  re- 
strained by  a  severe  and  stern  government :  but  they 
still  meditate  the  renewal  of  insurrection  and  massacre ; 
and  they  are  prepared  to  renew  the  worst  and  most  atro- 
cious of  their  crimes,  —  that  crime  against  posterity  and 
against  human  nature  itself,  —  the  crime  of  degrading 
and  prostituting  the  sacred  name  of  liberty.  I  must 
own  that,  however  paradoxical  it  may  appear,  I  should 
almost  think,  not  worse,  but  more  meanly  of  them,  if  it 
were  otherwise.  I  must  then  think  them  destitute  of 
that,  —  I  will  not  call  it  courage,  because  that  is  the 
name  of  a  virtue,  —  but  of  that  ferocious  energy  which 
alone  rescues  ruffians  from  contempt.  If  they  were 
destitute  of  that  which  is  the  heroism  of  murderers, 
they  would  be  the  lowest  as  well  as  the  most  abomina- 
ble of  mankind.  It  is  impossible  to  conceive  any  thing 
more  despicable  than  the  wretches  who,  after  playing 
the  tyrannicides  to  women  and  children,  become  the 
supple  and  fawning  slaves  of  the  first  government  that 
knows  how  to  wield  the  scourge  with  a  firm  hand. 


FRAUDULENT  PARTY   OUTCRIES. 

Daniel  Webster. 

Mr.  President  :  On  the  great  questions  which  oc- 
cupy us,  we   all  look  for  some  decisive    movement    of 


FRAUDULENT    PAKTY    OUTCRIES.  325 

public  opinion.  As  I  wish  that  movement  to  be  free, 
intelligent,  and  unbiased,  the  true  manifestation  of  the 
public  will,  I  desire  to  prepare  the  country  for  another 
appeal,  which  I  perceive  is  about  to  be  made  to  popular 
prejudice,  another  attempt  to  obscure  all  distinct  views 
of  the  public  good,  by  loud  cries  against  false  danger, 
and  by  exciting  the  passions  of  one  class  against  another. 
I  am  not  mistaken  in  the  omen ;  I  see  the  magazine 
whence  the  weapons  of  this  warfare  are  to  be  drawn. 
I  already  hear  the  din  of  the  hammering  of  arms  pre- 
paratory to  the  combat.  They  may  be  such  arms,  per- 
haps, as  reason  and  justice  and  honest  patriotism  cannot 
resist.  Every  effort  at  resistance,  it  is  possible,  may  be 
feeble  and  powerless;  but,  for  one,  I  shall  make  an 
effort,  —  an  effort  to  be  begun  now,  and  to  be  carried  on 
and  continued,  with  untiling  zeal,  till  the  end  of  the 
contest  comes. 

Sir,  I  see,  in  those  vehicles  which  carry  to  the  people 
sentiments  from  high  places,  plain  declarations  that  the 
present  controversy  is  but  a  strife  between  one  part  of 
the  community  and  another.  I  hear  it  boasted  as  the 
unfailing  security,  the  solid  ground,  never  to  be  shaken, 
on  which  recent  measures  rest,  tJiat  the  poor  naturally 
hate  the  rich.  I  know  that,  under  the  cover  of  the  roofs 
of  the  Capitol,  within  the  last  twenty-four  hours,  among 
men  sent  here  to  devise  means  for  the  public  safety  and 
the  public  good,  it  has  been  vaunted  forth,  as  matter  of 
boast  and  triumph,  that  one  cause  existed  powerful 
enough  to  support  every  thing,  and  to  defend  every 
thing ;  and  that  was,  the  natural  hatred  of  the  poor  to  the 
rich. 

Sir,  I  pronounce  the  author  of  such  sentiments  to  be 
guilty  of  attempting  a  detestable  fraud  on  the  commu- 
nity ;  a  double  fraud ;  a  fraud  which  is  to  cheat  men  out 


326  CHOICE   READINGS. 

of  their  property  and  out  of  the  earnings  of  their  labour, 
by  first  cheating  them  out  of  their  understandings. 

"  The  natural  hatred  of  the  poor  to  the  rich !  "  Sir, 
it  shall  not  be  till  the  last  moment  of  my  existence,  — 
it  shall  be  only  when  I  am  drawn  to  the  verge  of  obli- 
vion, when  I  shall  cease  to  have  respect  or  affection  for 
any  thing  on  Earth,  —  that  I  will  believe  the  people  of 
the  United  States  capable  of  being  effectually  deluded, 
cajoled,  and  driven  about  in  herds,  by  such  abominable 
frauds  as  this.  If  they  shall  sink  to  that  point ;  if  they 
so  far  cease  to  be  men,  thinking  men,  intelligent  men, 
as  to  yield  to  such  pretences  and  such  clamour,  —  they 
will  be  slaves  already  ;  slaves  to  their  own  passions, 
slaves  to  the  fraud  and  knavery  of  pretended  friends. 
They  will  deserve  to  be  blotted  out  of  all  the  records 
of  freedom  j  they  ought  not  to  dishonour  the  cause  of 
self-government,  by  attempting  any  longer  to  exercise 
it ;  they  ought  to  keep  their  unworthy  hands  entirely 
off  from  the  cause  of  republican  liberty,  if  the}'  are 
capable  of  being  the  victims  of  artifices  so  shallow,  of 
tricks  so  stale,  so  threadbare,  so  often  practised,  so  much 
worn  out,  on  serfs  and  slaves. 

"  The  natural  hatred  of  the  poor  against  the  rich ! " 
"  The  danger  of  a  moneyed  aristocracy !  "  "A  power 
as  great  and  dangerous  as  that  resisted  by  the  Revolu- 
tion ! "  "A  call  to  a  new  Declaration  of  Independence ! " 
Sir,  I  admonish  the  people  against  the  objects  of  out- 
cries like  these.  I  admonish  every  industrious  labourer 
iu  the  country  to  be  on  his  guard  against  such  delusion. 
I  tell  him  the  attempt  is  to  play  off  his  passions  against 
his  interests,  and  to  prevail  on  him,  in  the  name  of  lib- 
erty, to  destroy  all  the  fruits  of  liberty;  in  the  name  of 
patriotism,  to  injure  and  afflict  his  country ;  and,  in  the 
name  of  his  own  independence,  to  destroy  that  very 


INDIGNATION    OF    A    HIGH-MINDED    SPANIARD.  327 

independence,  and  make  him  a  beggar  and  a  slave.  Has 
he  a  doUar  ?  He  is  advised  to  do  that  which  will  destroy 
half  its  value.  Plas  he  hands  to  labour?  Let  him 
rather  fold  them,  and  sit  still,  than  be  pushed  on,  by 
f]-aud  and  artifice,  to  support  measures  which  will  render 
his  labour  useless  and  hopeless. 


DTOIGNATION   OF   A  HIGH-MINDED   SPANIAED. 

Wordsworth. 

We  can  endure  that  he  should  waste  our  lands, 

Despoil  our  temples,  and  by  sword  and  flame 

Return  us  to  the  dust  from  wliich  we  came ; 

Such  food  a  Tyrant's  appetite  demands : 

And  we  can  brook  the  thought  that  by  his  hands 

Spain  may  be  overpower'd,  and  he  possess, 

For  his  delight,  a  solemn  wilderness 

Where  all  the  brave  lie  dead.     But,  when  of  bands 

Which  he  will  break  for  us  he  dares  to  speak. 

Of  benefits,  and  of  a  future  day 

When  our  enlighten'd  minds  shall  bless  his  sway ; 

Then,  the  strain'd  heart  of  fortitude  proves  weak ; 

Our  groans,  our  blushes,  our  pale  cheeks  declare 

That  he  has  power  to  inflict  what  we  lack  strength  to  bear 


328  CHOICE    READINGS. 


VIII. 
LIVELY,   JOYOUS,   GAY. 


L  'ALLEGRO. 

John  Milton. 

Haste  thee,  nymph,  and  bring  with  thee 

Jest  and  3'outhfal  Jol]it3\ 

Quips,  and  ci'anks,  and  wanton  wiles, 

Nods,  and  becks,  and  wreathed  smiles, 

Such  as  hang  on  Hebe's  cheek, 

And  love  to  live  in  dimple  sleek  ; 

Sport,  that  wrinkled  Care  derides, 

And  Laughter  holding  both  his  sides. 

Come,  and  trip  it  as  you  go 

On  the  light  fantastic  toe  ; 

And  in  thy  right  hand  lead  with  thee 

The  mountain  nymph,  sweet  Liberty: 

And,  if  I  give  thee  honour  due, 

Mirth,  admit  me  of  thy  crew. 

To  live  with  her,  and  live  with  thee, 

In  unreprov^d  pleasures  free  ; 

To  hear  the  lark  begin  his  flight. 

And  singing  startle  the  dull  night, 

From  his  watch-tower  in  the  skies, 

Till  the  dappled  dawn  doth  rise. 

Then  to  come,  in  spite  of  sorrow, 
And  at  my  window  bid  good-morrow, 
Through  the  sweet-brier,  or  the  vine, 
Or  the  twisted  eglantine ; 


l' ALLEGRO.  329 

While  the  cock  with  lively  din 
Scatters  the  rear  of  darkness  thin, 
And  to  the  stack,  or  the  barn-door. 
Stoutly  struts  his  dames  before  : 
Oft  listening  how  the  hounds  and  horn 
Cheerily  rouse  the  slumbering  morn, 
From  the  side  of  some  hoar  hill. 
Through  the  liigh  wood  echoing  slirill ; 
Sometimes  walking  not  unseen 
By  hedgerow  elms,  on  hillocks  green, 
Right  against  the  eastern  gate, 
Where  the  great  Sun  begins  his  state, 
Robed  in  flames  and  anilKT  liglit. 
The  clouds  in  thousand  liveries  dight ; 
While  the  plouglnnan  near  at  hand 
Whistles  o'er  the  furrow 'd  land. 
And  the  milkmaid  singeth  blithe, 
And  the  mower  whets  his  scythe, 
And  every  shei)herd  tells  his  tale 
Under  the  hawthorn  in  the  dale. 

Straight  mine  eye  hath  caught  new  pleasm-es 

While  the  landscape  round  it  measures  ; 

Russet  lawns  and  fallows  gray 

Where  the  nibbling  flocks  do  stra}' ; 

Mountains  on  whose  barren  breast 

The  labouring  clouds  do  often  rest ; 

Meadows  trim  with  daisies  pied  ; 

Shallow  brooks,  and  rivers  wide  : 

Towers  and  battlements  it  sees 

Bosom'd  high  in  tufted  trees. 

Where  perhaps  some  beauty  lies, 

The  cynosure  of  neighbouring  eyes. 

Sometimes,  witli  secure  delight, 

The  upland  hamlets  will  invite. 

When  the  merry  bells  ring  I'ound, 

And  the  jocund  rebecks  sound 


330  CHOICE    READINGS. 

To  many  a  youth  and  many  a  maid, 
Dancing  in  the  checker'd  shade  ; 
And  young  and  old  come  forth  to  play 
On  a  sunshine  holiday. 

Tower'd  cities  please  us  then, 

And  the  busy  hum  of  men, 

Where  throngs  of  knights  and  barons  bold 

In  weeds  of  peace  high  triumphs  Iiold, 

With  store  of  ladies,  whose  briglit  e3-es 

Rain  influence,  and  judge  the  prize 

Of  wit  or  arms,  while  both  contend 

To  win  her  grace  whom  all  commend. 

There  let  Hymen  oft  appear, 

In  saffron  robe,  with  taper  clear, 

And  pomp  and  feast  and  revelry, 

With  masque  and  antique  pageantry  ; 

Such  sights  as  youthful  poets  dream 

On  summer  eves  by  haunted  stream. 

Then  to  the  well-trod  stage  anon, 

If  Jonson's  learned  sock  be  on. 

Or  sweetest  Shakespeare,  Fancy's  child, 

Warble  his  native  wood-notes  wild. 

These  delights  if  thou  canst  give, 

Mirth,  with  thee  I  mean  to  live. 


THE  DAFFODILS. 

Wordsworth. 

I  wander'd  lonely  as  a  cloud 

That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills, 

When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 

A  host,  of  golden  daffodils  ; 

Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees. 

Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 


YOUNG    LOCIIINVAR.  331 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 
And  twinkle  on  the  milky  way, 
They  stretch'd  in  never-ending  line 
Along  the  margin  of  the  bay  : 
Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance, 
Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced ;  but  they 

Out-did  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee  : 

A  poet  could  not  but  be  gay, 

In  such  a  jocund  company  : 

I  gazed  —  and  gazed  —  but  little  thought 

What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought : 

For  oft,  when  on  mj'  couch  I  lie 
In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood, 
They  flash  upon  that  inward  e^'e 
Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude  ; 
And  then  my  heart  with  i)k'asure  fills, 
And  dances  with  the  datiodils. 


3j«<0 


YOTJNG   LOOHINVAR. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 

O,  YOUNG  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the  West ! 
Through  all  the  wide  border  his  steed  was  the  best ; 
And  save  his  good  broadsword  he  weapons  had  none  ; 
He  rode  all  unarin'd  and  he  rode  all  alone. 
So  faithful  in  love  and  so  dauntless  in  war. 
There  never  was  knight  like  the  young  Lochinvar. 

He  stay'd  not  for  brake,  and  he  stopp'd  not  for  stone; 

He  swam  the  Eske  river  where  ford  there  was  none ; 

But,  ere  he  alighted  at  Netherby  gate, 

The  bride  had  consented,  —  the  gallant  came  late; 

For  a  laggard  in  love  and  a  dastard  in  war 

Was  to  wed  the  fair  Ellen  of  brave  Loeiiinvar. 


332  CHOICE   READINGS. 

So  boldly  he  enter'd  the  Netherby  hall, 

Among  bridesmen,  and  kinsmen,  and  brotl  ers,  and  alls 

Then  spoke  the  bride's  father,  his  hand  on  his  sword,  — 

For  the  poor  craven  bridegroom  said  never  a  word,  — 

*'  O  come  ye  in  peace  here,  or  come  ye  in  war, 

Or  to  dance  at  our  bridal,  young  Lord  Lochinvar?  " 

"  I  long  woo'd  your  daughter ;  —  my  suit  you  denied  r 
Love  swells  like  tlie  Solwa^',  but  ebbs  like  its  tide ; 
And  now  I  am  come,  with  this  lost  love  of  mine, 
To  lead  but  one  measure,  — drink  one  cup  of  wine. 
There  be  maidens  in  Scotland,  more  lovely  by  far, 
That  would  gladly  be  bride  to  the  young  Lochinvar." 

The  bride  kiss'd  the  goblet ;  the  knight  took  it  up ; 
He  quaff'd  off  the  wine,  and  he  threw  down  the  cup ; 
She  look'd  down  to  blush,  and  she  look'd  up  to  sigh, 
With  a  smile  on  her  lip  and  a  tear  in  lier  eye ; 
He  took  her  soft  hand  ere  her  mother  could  bar ;  — 
*'  Now  tread  we  a  measure  !  "  said  young  Lochinvar. 

So  stately  his  form  and  so  lovely  her  face, 

That  never  a  hall  such  a  galliard  did  grace ; 

While  her  mother  did  fret,  and  her  father  did  fume, 

And  the  bridegroom  stood  dangling  his  bonnet  and  plume, 

And  the  bridemaidens  whisper'd,  "  'twere  better,  by  far, 

To  have  match'd  our  fair  cousin  -with  young  Lochinvai'." 

One  touch  to  her  hand,  and  one  word  in  her  ear, 

When  they  reach'd  the  hall  door,  where  the  charger  stood 

near ; 
So  light  to  the  croup  the  fair  lady  he  swung, 
So  light  to  the  saddle  before  her  he  sprung ;  — 
"  She  is  won  !  we  are  gone,  over  bank,  bush,  and  scaur; 
They'll  have  fleet  steeds  that  follow  !  "  quoth  young  Lochin- 
var, 

There  was  mounting  *mong  Graemes  of  the  Netherbv  clan  ; 
Fosters,  Fenwicks,  and  Musgraves,  they  rode  and  tbey  ran : 


A   MORNING   RIDE.  33^ 

There  was  racing  and  chasing  on  Cannohie  lea, 
But  the  lost  bride  of  Netherby  ne'er  did  they  see. 
So  daring  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war ; 
Have  ye  e'er  heard  of  gallant  like  young  Lochinvar? 


A    MOKNINQ    RIDE 

From  "The  Wheelman." 

Up  with  the  lark  in  the  first  flush  of  morning, 
Ere  the  world  wakes  to  its  work  or  its  play ; 

Off  for  a  spin  to  tlie  wide-stretching  country, 
Far  from  the  close,  stifling  city  away. 

A  spring  to  the  saddle,  a  spurt  with  the  pedal. 
The  roadway  is  flying  from  under  my  wheel : 

With  motions  so  sprightly,  with  heart  beating  lightly, 
How  glorious  to  master  this  creature  of  steel ! 

Now  mounting  the  hill-slope  with  slow,  steady  toiling, 
Each  turn  of  the  wheel  brings  us  nearer  the  goal ; 

And  so  on  life's  journey  'tis  patient  endeavour 
That  opens  the  path  to  the  conquering  soul. 

The  summit  surmounted,  we're  now  wildly  dashing 

Through  woodland  and  meadow,  past  farm-house  and  dell  • 

Inhaling  the  breath  of  the  field  and  the  forest. 
Keeping  time  as  we  glide  to  the  tinkling  cow-bell. 

Lo  !  at  length  in  the  east,  'mid  the  radiant  glory, 
Great  Phoebus  Apollo  looks  forth,  bright  and  fair. 


334  CHOICE   READINGS. 

Attended  by  cloudlets  all  roseate  and  golden  ; 
O,  jo}'  to  be  out  on  a  morning  so  rare  ! 

Now  slowly  ;  whoa,  Reindeer  !  here  conies  a  fair  milkmaid  : 
Pure  milk  through  a  straw  is  refreshing,  I  ween  ; 

And  so  are  the  blushes  of  pure,  happy  girlhood  ; 

Then    here's    to    your    health    and    your    sweetness,    my 


queen 


Once  more  in  the  saddle,  we're  bounding  on  homeward, 
Our  frame  all  aglow  with  this  excellent  sport ; 

Now  coasting,  now  climbing,  then  racing  and  beating 
Some  young  rustic  jockey  in  metre  so  short. 

That  in  furious  rage  he  whips  and  he  lashes  : 

But,  'tis  useless,  you  see,  my  line  f(!llow,  say  we, 

As  we  dash  along  onward  still  faster  and  faster, 
Hoping  next  time  that  he  not  so  foolish  will  be. 

As  we  mount  the  last  hill,  to  the  smoke-clouded  city. 
Just  beginning  to  boil  with  its  great  human  tide, 

It  calls  us  to  toil,  and  to  enter  the  conflict ; 
So  endeth  this  morning  our  twenty-mile  ride. 


I'M  WITH  YOU  ONCE  AGAIN. 

G.  P.  Morris. 

I'm  with  you  once  again,  my  friends; 

No  more  luy  footsteps  roam  ; 
Where  it  began  my  journey  ends, 

Amid  the  scenes  of  home. 


THE    I-AST    I>EAF.  3,^5 

No  other  olimc  has  skies  so  blue, 

Or  stietinis  so  l)roud  and  clear ; 
And  where  are  hearts  so  warm  and  true 

As  those  that  meet  me  here? 

Since  last,  with  spirits  wild  and  free, 

I  press'd  my  native  strand, 
I've  wander' d  man}-  miles  at  sea. 

And  many  miles  on  land  : 
I've  seen  fair  regions  of  the  Earth 

With  rude  commotion  torn, 
Wliich  tnuglit  mc  how  to  prize  the;  worth 

Of  that  where  I  was  born. 

In  other  countries,  when  I  heard 

The  language  of  my  own, 
How  fondly  each  familiar  word 

Awoke  an  answering  tone  ! 
But,  when  our  woodland  songs  were  sung 

Upon  a  f()i-('ign  mart, 
The  vows  that  falter'd  on  the  tongue 

With  rai)ture  lill'd  my  heart. 

My  iiaiive  land,  I  turn  to  you 

With  bk^ssing  and  with  prayer, 
Where  man  is  brave  and  woman  true, 

And  free  as  mountain  air. 
Long  may  our  flag  in  triumi)h  wave 

Against  the  world  combined. 
And  friends  a  welcome,  foes  a  grave, 

Within  our  borders  find  ! 

THE    LAST    LEAP. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


I  SAW  him  once  before, 

As  he  passM  by  tbe  >lo()r ; 
Ami  ajrain 


The  pavement-stones  resound 
As  he  totters  o'er  the  ground 
With  his  cane. 


33G 


CHOICE    READINGS. 


They  say  that  in  his  prime, 
Ere  tlie  pruning-knife  of  Time 

Cut  him  down, 
Not  a  better  man  was  found 
By  the  crier  on  his  round 

Tlirough  the  town. 

But  now  he  walks  the  streets, 
And  he  looks  at  all  he  meets 

So  forlorn ; 
And  he  shakes  his  feeble  head, 
That  it  seems  as  if  he  said, 

"They  are  gone." 

The  mossy  marbles  rest 

On  the  lips  that  he  has  press'd 

In  their  bloom ; 
And  the  names  he  loved  to  hear 
Have  been  carved  for  many  a  year 

On  the  tomb. 

My  grandmamma  has  said,  — 
Poor  old  lady !  she  is  dead 
Long  ago, — 


That  he  had  a  Roman  nose. 
And  his  cheek  was  like  a  rose 
In  the  snow. 

But  now  his  nose  is  thin, 
And  it  rests  upon  his  chin 

Like  a  staif ;  • 

And  a  crook  is  in  his  back. 
And  a  melancholy  crack 

In  his  laugh. 

I  know  it  is  a  sin 
For  me  to  sit  and  grin 

At  him  here ; 
But  the  old  three-corner'd  hat 
And  the  breeches,  and  all  that, 

Are  so  queer ! 

And,  if  I  should  live  to  be 
The  last  leaf  upon  the  tree 

In  the  Spring, 
Let  them  smile  as  I  do  now. 
At  the  old  forsaken  bough 

Where  I  cling. 


SONG   OF   THE   BKOOK. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 

I  COME  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern : 

I  make  a  sudden  sally 
And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern, 

To  bicker  down  a  valley. 

By  thirty  hills  I  hurr^-  down, 
Or  slip  between  the  ridges, 

By  twent}'  thorps,  a  little  town, 
And  half  a  hundred  bridges. 

Till  last  by  Philip's  farm  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  forever. 


SONG    OK    TUK    BKOOK. 

I  chatter  over  stony  ways, 
In  little  sharps  and  trebles, 

I  bubble  into  eddying  bays, 
I  babble  on  the  pebbles. 

With  many  a  curve  my  banks  I  fret 
By  many  a  field  and  fallow, 

And  many  a  fairy  foreland  set 
With  willow-weed  and  mallow. 

I  chatter,  cliatter,  as  I  How 
To  join  the  brimming  river  ; 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  forever. 

I  wind  about,  and  in  and  out. 
With  here  a  blossom  sailing, 

And  here  and  there  a  lusty  trout. 
And  here  and  there  a  grayling ; 

And  here  and  there  a  foamy  flake 

Upon  me,  as  I  travel 
With  many  a  silvery  waterbreak 

Above  the  golden  gravel ; 

And  draw  them  all  along,  and  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river  ; 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  forever. 

I  steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots  ; 

I  slide  by  hazel  covers  ; 
I  move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots 

That  grow  for  happy  lovers  : 

I  slip,  I  slide,  T  gloom,  T  glance. 
Among  my  skimming  swallows  ; 

I  make  the  netted  sunbeams  dance 
Against  my  sandy  shallows  : 


338  CHOICE    READINGS. 

I  murmur  under  Moon  and  stars 
In  brambly  wildernesses ; 

I  linger  by  ni}'  shingly  bars  ; 
I  loiter  round  my  cresses  ; 

And  out  again  I  curve  and  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river  ; 

For  men  ma}'  come  and  men  ma}'  go, 
But  I  go  on  forever. 


Ot«>:i0 


A  PSALM  OF  LIFE. 

H.  W.  Longfellow. 

Tell  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers, 
"  Life  is  but  an  empty  dream  ! 

For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 
And  things  are  not  what  they  seem." 

Life  is  real !  life  is  earnest ! 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal ; 
"  Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest," 

Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 

Is  our  destined  end  or  way  ; 
But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow, 

Find  us  further  than  to-day. 

Art  is  long,  and  Time  is  fleeting, 

And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and  brave, 

Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating. 
Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 

In  the  world's  broad  field  of  battle. 

In  the  bivouac  of  Life, 
Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle  ! 

Be  a  hero  in  the  strife  ! 


THE    BOYS.  339 


Trust  no  Future,  howe'er  pleasant ! 

Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead ! 
Act,  —  act  ill  tlie  liviug  Present ! 

Heart  within,  and  God  o'erhead. 

Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 
We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 

And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time  ; 

Footprints  that  perhaps  another, 
Sailing  o'er  life's  solemn  main, 

A  forlorn  and  shipwreck'd  brother, 
Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again. 

Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing, 
With  a  heart  for  any  fate  ; 

Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 
Learn  to  labour  and  to  wait. 


THE   BOYS. 

O.  W.  Holmes. 

Has  there  any  old  fellow  got  mix'd  with  the  boys? 
If  he  has,  take  him  out,  without  making  a  noise. 
Hang  the  almanac's  cheat  and  the  catalogue's  spite  ! 
Old  Time  is  a  liar !  we're  twenty  to-night ! 

We're  twenty  !     We're  twenty  !     Who  says  we  are  more? 
He's  tipsy,  — young  jackanapes  !  —  show  him  the  door  ! 
"  Gray  temples  at  twenty?  "  —  Yes  !  white  if  we  please  ; 
Where  the  snow-flakes  fall  thickest  there's  nothing  can  freeze  ! 

Was  it  snowing  I  spoke  of  ?     Excuse  the  mistake  ! 
Look  close,  —  you  will  not  see  a  sign  of  a  flake  ! 
We  want  some  new  garlands  for  tliose  we  have  shed. 
And  these  are  white  roses  in  place  of  the  red. 


340  CHOICE    READINGS. 

We've  a  trick,  we  young  fellows,  3-011  may  have  been  told, 
Of  talking,  in  public,  as  if  we  were  old  ; 
That  boy  we  call  "  Doctor,"  and  this  we  call  "  Judge"  ; 
It's  a  neat  little  fiction,  —  of  course  its  all  fudge. 

That  fellow's  the  "  Speaker,"  the  one  on  the  right ; 
"  Mr.  Mayor,"  my  young  one,  how  are  30U  to-night? 
That's  our  "  Member  of  Congress,"  we  say  when  we  chaff; 
There's  the  "Reverend," — what's  his  name?  —  don't  make 
me  laugh. 

That  bo}'  with  the  grave  mathematical  look 

Made  believe  he  had  written  a  wonderful  book, 

And  the  Royal  Society'  thought  it  was  true  ! 

So  they  chose  him  right  in,  — a  good  joke  it  was  too ! 

There's  a  boy,  we  pretend,  with  a  three-decker  brain. 

That  could  harness  a  team  with  a  logical  chain  ; 

When  he  spoke  of  our  manhood  in  syllabled  fire. 

We  call'd  him  "  The  Justice,"  but  now  he's  the  "  Squire." 

And  there's  a  nice  youngster  of  excellent  pith  ; 
Fate  tried  to  conceal  him  by  naming  him  Smith ; 
But  he  shouted  a  song  for  the  brave  and  the  free,  — 
Just  read  on  his  medal,  "  My  country-,"  "  of  thee  !  " 

You  hear  that  boy  laughing?     You  think  he's  all  fun  ; 
But  the  angels  laugh  too  at  the  good  he  has  done  ; 
The  children  laugh  loud  as  they  troop  to  his  call. 
And  the  poor  man  that  knows  him  laughs  loudest  of  all ! 

Yes,  we're  boys,  —  always  playing  with  tongue  or  with  pen  ■• 
And  I  sometimes  have  ask'd,  Shall  we  ever  be  men  ? 
Shall  we  always  be  youthful,  and  laughing,  and  gay, 
Till  the  last  dear  companion  drops  smiling  awa}'^  ? 

Then  here's  to  our  boyhood,  its  gold  and  its  gray! 
The  stars  of  its  Winter,  the  dews  of  its  May  ! 
And,  when  we  have  done  with  our  life-lasting  toys. 
Dear  Father,  take  care  of  Thy  children,  The  Boys ! 


EXPOSTULATION    AND    REPLY. 

EXPOSTULATION  AND   EEPLT. 

Wordsworth. 

"  Why,  William,  on  that  old  gray  stone, 
Thus  for  the  length  of  half  a  day, 
Wliy,  William,  sit  you  thus  alone, 
And  dream  your  time  away  ? 

Where  are  your  books  ?  that  light  bequeath'd 
To  Beings  else  forlorn  and  blind  ! 
Up  !  up  !  and  drink  the  spirit  breatlied 
From  dead  men  to  their  kind. 

You  look  round  on  your  Mother  Earth, 
As  if  she  for  no  purpose  bore  you  ; 
As  if  you  were  her  first-born  l)irth, 
And  none  had  lived  before  you  !  " 

One  morning  thus,  by  Esthwaite  lake, 
When  life  was  sweet,  I  knew  not  why, 
To  me  my  good  friend  Matthew  spake, 
And  thus  T  made  reply  : 

"  The  eye  —  it  cannot  choose  but  see  ; 
We  cannot  bid  the  ear  be  still ; 
Our  bodies  feel,  where'er  they  be, 
Against  or  with  our  will. 

Nor  less  I  deem  that  there  arc  Powers 
Which  of  themselves  our  minds  impress  ; 
That  we  can  feed  this  mind  of  ours 
In  a  wise  passiveness. 

Think  you,  'mid  all  this  mighty  sum 
Of  things  for  ever  speaking. 
That  nothing  of  itself  will  come. 
But  we  must  still  be  seeking? 


341 


J42  CHOICE   READINGS. 

Then  ask  not  wherefore,  here,  alone, 
Conversing  a's  I  ma}', 
I  sit  upon  this  old  gray  stone, 
And  dream  my  time  away." 


THE    TABLES    TURNED. 

Up  !  up  !  my  Friend,  and  quit  your  books, 
Or  surely  you'll  grow  double  : 
Up  !  up  !  my  Friend,  and  clear  your  looks  ; 
Why  all  this  toil  and  trouble  ? 

The  Sun,  above  the  mountain's  head, 

A  freshening  lustre  mellow 

Through  all  the  long  green  fields  has  spread. 

His  first  sweet  evening  yellow. 

Books  !   'tis  a  dull  and  endless  strife  : 
Come,  hear  the  woodland  linnet. 
How  sweet  his  music  !  on  my  life, 
There's  more  of  wisdom  in  it. 

And  hark,  how  blithe  the  throstle  sings  ! 
He,  too,  is  no  mean  i)reacher : 
Come  forth  into  the  light  of  things, 
Let  Nature  be  your  teacher. 

She  has  a  world  of  ready  wealth, 
Our  minds  and  hearts  to  bless, — 
Spontaneous  wisdom  breathed  by  health, 
Truth  breathed  by  cheerfulness. 

One  impulse  from  a  vernal  wood 
May  teach  you  more  of  man. 
Of  moral  evil  and  of  good. 
Than  all  the  sages  can. 


THE    PLEASURE-BOAT.  343 

Sweet  is  the  lore  which  Nature  brings  ; 
Our  meddling  intellect 
Mis-shapes  the  beauteous  forms  of  things  : 
We  murder  to  dissect. 

Enough  of  Science  and  of  Art  ; 
Close  up  those  barren  leaves  ; 
Come  forth,  and  bring  with  you  a  heart 
That  watches  and  receives. 


o^acjc 


THE  PLEASUEE-BOAT. 

R.  H.  Dana. 

Come,  hoist  the  sail,  the  fast  let  go ! 

Thej-'re  seated  side  by  side  ; 
Wave  chases  wave  in  pleasant  flow  ; 

The  bay  is  fair  and  wide. 

The  ripples  lightlj'  tap  the  boat. 

Loose  !  Give  her  to  the  wind  ! 
She  shoots  ahead  ;  they're  all  afloat ; 

The  strand  is  far  behind. 

No  danger  reach  so  fair  a  crew ! 

Thou  goddess  of  the  foam, 
I'll  ever  pay  thee  worship  due, 

If  thou  wilt  bring  them  home. 

Fair  ladies,  fairer  than  the  spray 
The  prow  is  dashing  wide, 

Soft  breezes  take  you  on  your  way, 
Soft  flow  the  blessed  tide  ! 

O,  might  1  like  those  breezes  be, 
And  touch  that  arching  brow, 

I'd  dwell  for  ever  on  the  sea 
Where  ye  are  floating  now. 


344  CHOICE    READINGS. 

The  boat  goes  tilting  ou  the  waves  ; 

The  waves  go  tilting  by  : 
There  dips  the  duck,  —  her  back  she  laves 

O'erhead  the  sea-gulls  fl}'. 

Now,  like  the  gulls  that  dart  for  prey, 

The  little  vessel  stoops  ; 
Now,  rising,  shoots  along  her  way. 

Like  them,  in  easy  swoops. 

The  sunlight  falling  on  her  sheet, 

It  glitters  like  the  drift, 
Sparkling,  in  scorn  of  Summer's  heat, 

High  up  some  mountain  rift. 

The  winds  are  fresh ;  she's  driving  fast 

Upon  the  bending  tide  ; 
The  crinkling  sail  and  crinkling  mast 

Go  with  her  side  by  side. 

Why  dies  the  breeze  awa^-  so  soon? 

Whj'  hangs  the  pennant  down  ? 
The  sea  is  glass  ;  the  Sun  at  noon.  — 

Nay,  lady,  do  not  frown ; 

For,  see,  the  winged  fisher's  plume 

Is  painted  on  the  sea : 
Below,  a  cheek  of  lovely  bloom. 

Whose  eyes  look  up  at  thee? 

She  smiles  ;  thou  needs  must  smile  on  her : 

And,  see,  beside  her  face 
A  rich  white  cloud  that  doth  not  stir : 

What  beauty,  and  what  grace  ! 

And  pictured  beach  of  yellow  sand, 

And  peaked  rock,  and  hill 
Change  the  smooth  sea  to  fairy  land : 

How  lovely  and  how  still ! 


THE    NEW    YEAR.  345 

From  that  far  isle  the  thresher's  flail 

Strikes  close  upon  the  ear ; 
The  leaping  fish,  the  swinging  sail 

Of  yonder  sloop,  sound  near. 

The  parting  Sun  sends  out  a  glow 

Across  the  placid  bay, 
Touching  with  glory  all  the  show.  — 

A  breeze  !    Up  helm  !  Away  ! 

Careering  to  the  wind,  they  reach, 

With  laugh  and  call,  the  shore. 
They've  left  their  footprints  on  the  beach, 

But  then  1  hear  no  more. 

THE    NEW"  YEAE. 

Alfreu  Tennyson. 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky, 

The  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light ; 

The  year  is  dying  in  the  night ; 
Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 

Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new  ; 

Ring,  luipp}-  bells,  across  the  snow ; 

The  year  is  going  ;  let  him  go  ; 
Ring  out  the  false  ;  ring  in  the  true. 

Ring  out  the  grief,  that  saps  the  mind, 
For  those  that  here  we  see  no  more ; 
Ring  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor ; 

Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankind. 

Ring  out  a  slowly  dying  cause, 

And  ancient  forms  of  i^arty  strife  ; 

Ring  in  the  noV)ler  modes  of  life, 
A\^ith  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws. 


346  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Ring  out  the  want,  the  care,  the  sin, 
The  faithless  coldness  of  the  times  ; 
Ring  out,  ring  out  ray  mournful  rhymes, 

But  ring  the  fuller  minstrel  in. 

Ring  out  false  pride  in  place  and  blood, 
The  civic  slander  and  the  spite  ; 
Ring  in  the  love  of  truth  and  right ; 

Ring  in  the  common  love  of  good. 

Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease  ; 

Ring  out  the  narrowing  lust  of  gold ; 

Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old, 
Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 

Ring  in  the  valiant  man  and  free, 
The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand ; 
Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land  ; 

Rius;  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be. 


ai^c 


PISH-WOMEN   AT   CALAIS. 

'Tis  said,  fantastic  ocean  doth  enfold 

The  likeness  of  whate'er  on  land  is  seen ; 

But,  if  the  Nereid  Sisters  and  their  Queen, 

Above  whose  heads  the  tide  so  long  hath  roll'd, 

The  Dames  resemble  whom  we  here  behold. 

How  fearful  were  it  down  through  opening  waves 

To  sink  and  meet  them  in  their  fretted  caves, 

Wither'd,  grotesque,  immeasurably  old. 

And  shrill  and  fierce  in  accent !  — ■  Fear  it  not : 

For  they  Earth's  fairest  daughters  do  excel ; 

Pure  undecaying  beauty  is  their  lot ; 

Their  voices  into  liquid  music  swell. 

Thrilling  each  pearly  cleft  and  sparr}^  grot. 

The  undisturb'd  abodes  where  Sea-nymphs  dwell ! 


AUNT   TABITHA.  347 


HUMOROUS,   COMIC. 


AUNT   TABITHA. 

O.   W.  Holmes. 

Whatever  I  do  and  whatever  I  sa}-, 
Aunt  Tabitha  tells  me  that  isn't  the  way ; 
When  she  was  a  girl,  (forty  Summers  ago,) 
Aunt  Tabitiia  tells  me  they  never  did  so. 

Dear  aunt !  if  I  only  would  take  her  advice, — 
But  I  like  my  own  wa}',  and  I  find  it  so  nice  ! 
And  besides  I  forget  half  the  things  I  am  told  ; 
But  they  will  come  back  to  me,  —  wlien  I  am  old. 

If  a  youth  passes  by.  it  may  liappen,  no  doubt, 
He  may  chance  to  look  in  as  I  chance  to  look  out : 
She  would  never  endure  an  Impertinent  stare  ; 
It  is  horrid,  she  says,  and  I  mustn't  sit  there. 

A  Avalk  in  the  moonlight  has  pleasure,  I  own. 
But  it  isn't  quite  safe  to  be  walking  alone ; 
So  I  take  a  lad's  arm,  — just  for  safety,  you  know  ; 
But  Aunt  Tabitha  tells  me,  they  didn't  do  so. 

How  wicked  we  are,  and  how  good  tliey  were  then  ! 
They  kept  at  arm's  length  tliose  detestable  men  : 
What  an  era  of  virtue  she  lived  in  !  —  but  stay,  — 
Were  the  men  such  rogues  in  Aunt  Tabitha's  day? 


348  CHOICE    READINGS. 

If  the  men  were  so  wicked,  —  I'll  ask  m}*  papa 
How  he  dared  to  propose  to  my  darling  mamma? 
Was  he  like  the  rest  of  them?  goodness  !  who  knows? 
And  wliat  shall  I  sa}',  if  a  wretch  should  propose? 

I  am  thinking  if  aunt  knew  so  little  of  sin, 
What  a  wonder  Aunt  Tabitha's  aunt  must  have  been  ! 
And  her  grand-aunt^  — \t  scares  me,  —  how  shockingly  sad 
That  we  girls  of  to-day  are  so  frightfully  bad ! 

A  martyr  will  save  us,  and  nothing  else  can  ; 
Let  us  perish  to  rescue  some  wretched  young  man  ! 
Though,  when  to  the  altar  a  victim  I  go. 
Aunt  Tabitha'U  tell  me  —  she  never  did  so. 


AWFULLY  LOVELY  PHILOSOPHY. 

A  FEW  days  ago  a  Boston  girl,  who  had  been  attend- 
ing the  School  of  Philosophy  at  Concord,  arrived  in 
Brooklyn,  on  a  visit  to  a  seminary  chum.  After  can- 
vassing thoroughly  the  fun  and  gum-drops  that  made 
up  their  education  in  the  seat  of  learning  at  wliich  their 
early  scholastic  efforts  were  made,  the  Brooklyn  girl 
began  to  inquire  the  nature  of  the  Concord  entertain- 
ment. 

"  And  so  you  are  taking  lessons  in  philosophy  !  How 
do  you  like  it?" 

"  O,  it's  perfectly  lovely  I  It's  about  science,  you 
know,  and  we  all  just  dote  on  science." 

"  It  must  be  nice.     What  is  it  about  ?  " 

"  It's  about  molecules  as  much  as  any  thing  else,  and 
molecules  are  just  too  awfully  nice  for  any  thing.  If 
there's  any  thing  I  really  enjoy  it's  molecules.'" 

"■  Tell  me  about  them,  my  dear.  What  are  mole- 
cules?" 


AWFULLY    LOVELY    PHILOSOPHY.  349 

"O,  molecules!  They  are  little  wee  things,  and  it 
takes  ever  so  many  of  them.  They  are  splendid  things. 
Do  you  know,  there  ain't  anything  but  what's  got  mole- 
cules in  it.  And  Mr.  Cook  is  just  as  sweet  as  he  can 
be,  and  Mr.  Emerson  too.  They  explain  everything  so 
beautifully." 

"  How  I'd  like  to  go  there  ! "  said  the  Brooklyn  girl, 
enviously. 

"  You'd  enjoy  it  ever  so  much.  They  teach  proto- 
plasm, too  ;  and  if  there  is  one  thing  perfectly  heavenly 
it's  protoplasm.  I  really  don't  know  which  I  like  best, 
protoplasm  or  molecules." 

"  Tell  me  about  protoplasm.  I  know  I  should  adore 
it." 

"  'Deed  you  would.  It's  just  too  sweet  to  live.  You 
know  it's  about  how  things  get  started,  or  something  of 
that  kind.  You  ought  to  hear  Mr.  Emerson  tell  about 
it.  It  would  stir  your  very  soul.  The  first  time  he 
explained  about  protoplasm  there  wasn't  a  dry  eye  in 
the  house.  We  named  our  hats  after  him.  This  is  an 
Emerson  hat.  You  see  the  ribbon  is  drawn  over  the 
crown  and  caught  with  a  buckle  and  a  bunch  of  flowers. 
Then  you  turn  up  the  side  with  a  spray  of  forget-me- 
nots.  Ain't  it  just  too  sweet?  All  the  girls  in  the 
school  have  them." 

"  How  exquisitely  lovely !  Tell  me  some  more  sci- 
ence." 

"  O,  I  almost  forgot  about  differentiation.  I  am 
really  and  truly  positively  in  love  with  differentiation. 
It's  different  from  molecules  and  protoplasm,  but  it's 
every  bit  as  nice.  And  Mr.  Cook !  You  should  hear 
him  go  on  about  it.  I  really  believe  he's  perfectly 
bound  up  in  it.  This  scarf  is  the  Cook  scarf.  All  the 
girls  wear  them,  and  we  named  them  after  him,  just  on 
account  of  the  interest  he  takes  in  difl:erentiation." 


350  CHOICE    READINGS. 

"  What  is  it,  anyway  ?  " 

"  This  is  mull,  trimmed  with  Languedoc  lace  —  - " 

"  I  don't  mean  that,  —  that  other." 

"  O,  differentiation  !  Ain't  it  sweet?  It's  got  some- 
thing to  do  with  species.  It's  the  way  you  tell  one  hat 
from  another,  so  you'll  know  which  is  becoming.  And 
we  learn  all  about  ascidians  too.  They  are  the  divinest 
things !  I'm  absolutely  enraptured  with  ascidians.  If 
I  only  had  an  ascidian  of  my  own  I  wouldn't  ask  any- 
thing else  in  the  world." 

"  What  do  they  look  like,  dear  ?  Did  you  ever  see 
one?"  asked  the  Brooklyn  girl,  deeply  interested. 

"  O,  no ;  nobody  ever  saw  one  except  Mr.  Cook  and 
Mr.  Emerson ;  but  they  are  something  like  an  oyster 
with  a  reticule  hung  on  its  belt.  I  think  they  are  just 
heavenly." 

"Do  you  learn  any  thing  else  besides?" 

"  O,  yes.  We  learn  about  common  j)hilosophy  and 
logic,  and  those  common  things  like  metaphysics ;  but 
the  girls  don't  care  anything  about  those.  We  are  just 
in  ecstasies  over  differentiations  and  molecules,  and  Mr. 
Cook  and  protoplasms,  and  ascidians  and  Mr.  Emerson, 
and  I  really  don't  see  why  they  put  in  those  vulgar 
branches.  If  anybody  besides  Mr.  Cook  and  Mr.  Emer- 
son had  done  it,  we  should  have  told  him  to  his  face 
that  he  was  too  terribly,  awfully  mean."  And  the 
Brooklyn  girl  went  to  bed  that  night  in  the  dumps, 
because  fortune  had  nut  vouchsafed  her  the  advantages 
enjoyed  by  her  friend. 

THE  BALD-HEADED   MAN. 

The  other  day  a  lady,  accompanied  by  her  son,  a 
very  small  boy,  boarded  a  train  at  Little  Rock.     The 


THE    BALD-HEADED    MAN.  351 

woman  had  a  care-worn  expression  hanging  over  her 
face  like  a  tattered  veil,  and  many  of  the  rapid  ques- 
tions asked  by  the  boy  were  answered  by  unconscious 
sighs. 

"  Ma,"  said  the  boy,  "  that  man's  like  a  baby,  ain't 
he  ? "  pointing  to  a  bald-headed  man  sitting  just  in 
front  of  them. 

"  Hush  !  " 

"  Why  must  I  hush  ?  " 

After  a  few  moments'  silence,  ''  Ma,  what's  the  mat- 
ter with  that  man's  head  ?  " 

"  Hush,  I  tell  you.     He's  bald." 

"What's  bald?" 

"  His  head  hasn't  got  any  hair  on  it." 

"  Did  it  come  off?  " 

"  I  guess  so." 

'■'Will  mine  come  off?  " 

"Some  time,  maybe." 

"  Then  I'll  be  bald,  won't  I  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Will  you  care  ?  " 

"  Don't  ask  so  many  questions." 

After  another  silence,  the  boy  exclaimed,  "  Ma,  look 
at  that  fly  on  that  man's  head." 

"If  you   don't   hush,   I'll    whip   you    when    we   get 

home." 

"Look!     There's  another   lly.     Look  at    'em    light, 

look  at  'em  !  " 

"  Madam,"  said  the  man,  putting  aside  a  newspaper 
and  looking  around,  "what's  the  matter  with  that 
young  hyena?" 

The  woman  blushed,  stammered  out  something,  and 
attempted  to  smooth  back  the  boy's  hair. 

"  One  fly,  two  flies,  three  flies,"  said   the  boy  inno- 


352  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Gently,  following  with  his  eyes  a  basket  of  oranges 
carried  by  a  newsboy. 

"  Here,  you  young  hedgehog,"  said  the  bald-headed 
man,  "if  you  don't  hush,  I'll  have  the  conductor  put 
you  off  the  train." 

The  poor  woman,  not  knowing  what  else  to  do,  boxed 
the  boy's  ears,  and  then  gave  him  an  orange  to  keej^ 
him  from  crying. 

"  Ma,  have  I  got  red  marks  on  my  head  ?  " 

"  I'll  whip  you  again  if  you  don't  hush." 

"  Mister,"  said  the  boy,  after  a  short  silence,  "  does  it 
hurt  to  be  bald-headed  ?  " 

"  Youngster,"  said  the  man,  "  if  you'll  keep  quiet,  I'll 
give  you  a  quarter." 

The  boy  promised,  and  the  money  was  paid  over. 

The  man  took  up  his  paper,  and  resumed  his  reading. 

"  This  is  my  bald-headed  money,"  said  the  boy. 
"When  I  get  bald-headed,  I'm  goin*  to  give  boys 
money.     Mister,  have  all  bald-headed  men  got  money?" 

The  annoyed  man  threw  down  his  paper,  arose,  and 
exclaimed,  "•  Madam,  hereafter,  when  you  travel,  leave 
that  young  gorilla  at  home.  Hitherto,  I  always  thought 
that  the  old  prophet  was  very  cruel  for  calling  the  bears 
to  kill  the  children  for  making  sport  of  his  head,  but 
now  I  am  forced  to  believe  that  he  did  a  Christian  act. 
If  your  boy  had  been  in  the  crowd  he  would  have  died 
first.  If  I  can't  find  another  seat  on  this  train,  I'll  ride 
on  the  cow-catcher  rather  than  remain  here." 

"  The  bald-headed  man  is  gone,"  said  the  boy ;  and, 
as  the  woman  leaned  back,  a  tired  sigh  escaped  from 
her  lips. 


THE  BRAKEMAN  AT  CHURCH.  353 

THE   BEAKEMAN   AT   OHUEOH. 

R.    J.    BuRDETTE. 

On  the  road  once  more,  with  Lebanon  fading  away 
in  the  distance,  the  fat  passenger  drumming  idly  on  the 
window  pane,  the  cross  passenger  sound  asleep,  and  the 
tall,  thin  passenger  reading  "  Gen.  Grant's  Tour  Around 
the  World,"  and  wondering  why  "  Green's  August 
Flower"  should  be  printed  above  the  doors  of  "A 
Buddhist  Temple  at  Benares."  To  me  comes  the  brake- 
man,  and,  seating  himself  on  the  arm  of  the  seat,  says, 
"I  went  to  church  yesterda3^" 

"Yes?"  I  said,  with  that  interested  inflection  that 
asks  for  more.     "  And  what  church  did  you  attend  ?  " 

"  Which  do  you  guess  ?  "    he  asked. 

"Some  union  mission  church,"  I  hazarded. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  I  don't  like  to  run  on  these  branch 
roads  very  much.  I  don't  often  go  to  church,  and,  when 
I  do,  I  want  to  run  on  the  main  line,  where  your  run  is 
regular,  and  you  go  on  schedule  time,  and  don't  have  to 
wait  on  connections.  I  don't  like  to  run  on  a  branch. 
Good  enough,  but  I  don't  like  it.' 

"  Episcopal  ?  "  I  guessed. 

"  Limited  express,"  he  said,  "  all  palace  cars  and  $2 
extra  for  seat,  fast  time,  and  only  stop  at  big  stations. 
Nice  line,  but  too  exhaustive  for  a  brakeman.  All  train 
men  in  uniform,  conductor's  punch  and  lantern  silver 
plated,  and  no  train  boys  allowed.  Then  the  passengers 
are  allowed  to  talk  back  at  the  conductor,  and  it  makes 
them  too  free  and  easy.  No,  I  couldn't  stand  the  palace 
cars.  Rich  road,  though.  Don't  often  hear  of  a  re- 
ceiver being  appointed  for  that  line.  Some  mighty  nice 
people  travel  on  it,  too." 

"  Universalist  ?  "    I  suggested. 


354  CHOICE   READINGS. 

"  Broad  gauge,"  said  the  brakeman,  "  does  too  much 
complimentary  business.  Everybody  travels  on  a  pass. 
Conductor  doesn't  get  a  fare  once  in  fifty  miles.  Stops 
at  flag  stations,  and  won't  run  into  anything  but  a  union 
depot.  No  smoking-car  on  the  train.  Train  orders  are 
rather  vague  though,  and  the  train  men  don't  get  along 
well  with  the  passengers.  No,  I  don't  go  to  the  Uni- 
versalist,  but  I  know  some  good  men  who  run  on  that 
road." 

"Presbyterian?"    I  asked. 

"Narrow  gauge,  eh?"  said  the  brakeman,  "pretty 
track,  straight  as  a  rule ;  tunnel  right  through  a  moun- 
tain rather  than  go  around  it ;  spirit-level  grade ;  pas- 
sengers have  to  show  their  tickets  before  they  get  on 
the  train.  Mighty  strict  road,  but  the  cars  are  a  little 
narrow ;  have  to  sit  one  in  a  seat,  and  no  room  in  the 
aisle  to  dance.  Then  there  is  no  stop-over  tickets  al- 
lowed ;  got  to  go  straight  through  to  the  station  you're 
ticketed  for,  or  you  can't  get  on  at  all.  When  the  car 
is  full,  no  extra  coaches  ;  cars  built  at  the  shop  to  hold 
just  so  many,  and  nobody  else  allowed  on.  But  you  don't 
often  hear  of  an  accident  on  that  road.  It's  run  right 
up  to  the  rules.'' 

"Maybe  you  joined  the  Free-Thinkers?"    I  said. 

"  Scrub  road,"  said  the  brakeman,  "  dirt  road-bed  and 
110  ballast ;  no  time-card  and  no  train-dispatcher.  All 
trains  run  wild,  and  every  engineer  makes  his  own  time, 
just  as  he  pleases.  Smoke  if  you  want  to ;  kind  of  go- 
as-you-please  road.  Too  many  side  tracks,  and  every 
switch  wide  open  all  the  time,  with  the  switchman  sound 
asleep  and  the  target  lamp  dead  out.  Get  on  as  you 
please,  and  get  off  when  you  want  to.  Don't  have  to 
show  your  tickets,  and  the  conductor  isn't  expected  to 
do  anything  but  amuse  the  passengers.    No,  sir.     I  was 


THE  BRAKEMAK  AT  CHURCH.  365 

offered  a  pass,  but  I  don't  like  the  line.  I  don't  like  to 
travel  on  a  road  that  has  no  terminus.  Do  you  know, 
sir,  I  asked  a  division-superintendent  where  that  road 
run  to,  and  he  said  he  hoped  to  die  if  he  knew.  I  asked 
him  if  the  general  superintendent  could  tell  me,  and  he 
said  he  didn't  believe  they  had  a  general  superintendent, 
and  if  they  had  he  didn't  know  any  thing  more  about 
the  road  than  the  passengers.  I  asked  him  who  he  re- 
ported to,  and  he  said  '  nobody.'  I  asked  a  conductor 
who  he  got  his  orders  from,  and  he  said  he  didn't  take 
orders  from  any  living  man  or  dead  ghost.  And,  when 
I  asked  the  engineer  who  he  got  his  orders  from,  he 
said  he'd  like  to  see  anybody  give  him  orders,  he'd  run 
the  train  to  suit  himself,  or  he'd  run  it  into  the  ditch. 
Now  you  see,  sir,  I'm  a  railroad  man,  and  I  don't  care 
to  run  on  a  road  that  has  no  time,  makes  no  connec- 
tions, runs  nowhere,  and  has  no  superintendent.  It. 
may  be  all  right,  but  I've  railroaded  too  long  to  under- 
stand it." 

"•  Maybe  you  went  to  the  Congregational  Church  ?  " 

"Popular  road,"  said  the  brakeman ;  "an  old  road, 
too,  —  one  of  the  very  oldest  in  the  country.  Good 
road-bed  and  comfortable  cars.  Well-managed  road, 
too  ;  directors  don't  interfere  with  division-superintend- 
ents and  train-orders.  Road's  mighty  popular,  but  its 
pretty  independent,  too.  Yes,  didn't  one  of  the  divi- 
sion superintendents  down  east  discontinue  one  of  the 
oldest  stations  on  this  line  two  or  three  years  ago?  But 
it's  a  mighty  pleasant  road  to  travel  on,  —  always  has 
such  a  pleasant  class  of  passengers." 

"Did  you  try  the  Methodist?"    I  said. 

"  Now  you're  shouting ! "  he  said  with  some  enthusiasm. 
"Nice  road,  eh?  Fast  time  and  plenty  of  passengers. 
Engines  carry  a  power  of  steam,  and  don't  you  forget 


356  CHOICE    READINGS. 

it ;  steam-gauge  sliows  a  Imndred,  and  enough  all  the 
time.  Lively  road ;  when  the  conductor  shouts  '  all 
aboard,'  you  can  hear  him  at  the  next  station.  Every 
train-light  shines  like  a  head-light.  Stop-over  checks 
are  given  on  all  through-tickets ;  passenger  can  drop  off 
the  train  as  often  as  he  likes,  do  the  station  two  or  three 
days,  and  hop  on  the  next  revival  train  that  comes 
thundering  along.  Good,  wholesouled,  companionable 
conductors ;  ain't  a  road  in  the  country  where  the  pas- 
sengers feel  more  at  home.  No  passes ;  every  passenger 
pays  full  traffic  rates  for  his  ticket.  Wesleyanhouse 
air-brakes  on  all  trains,  too ;  pretty  safe  road,  but  I 
didn't  ride  over  it  yesterday." 

"Perhaps  you  tried  the  Baptist?"  I  guessed  once 
more. 

"Ah,  ha ! "  said  the  brakeman,  "  she's  a  daisy,  isn't 
she  ?  River  road  ;  beautiful  curves  ;  sweep  around  any 
thing  to  keep  close  to  the  river,  but  it's  all  steel  rail  and 
rock  ballast,  single  track  all  the  way,  and  not  a  side 
track  from  the  round  house  to  the  terminus.  Takes  a 
heap  of  water  to  run  it,  though ;  double  tanks  at  every 
station,  and  there  isn't  an  engine  in  the  shops  that  can 
pull  a  pound  or  run  a  mile  with  less  than  two  gauges. 
But  it  runs  through  a  lovely  country :  those  river  roads 
always  do ;  river  on  one  side  and  hills  on  the  other,  and 
it's  a  steady  climb  up  the  grade  all  the  way  till  the  run 
ends  where  the  fountain-head  of  the  river  begins.  Yes, 
sir ;  I'll  take  the  river  road  every  time  for  a  lovely  trip, 
sure  connections  and  a  good  time,  and  no  prairie  dust 
blowing  in  at  the  windows.  And  yesterday,  when  the 
conductor  came  around  for  the  tickets  with  a  little 
basket  punch,  I  didn't  ask  him  to  pass  me,  but  I  paid 
my  fare  like  a  little  man,  —  twenty-five  cents  for  an 
hour's  run,  and  a  little  concert  by  the  passengers  thrown 


THE    CHAMPION    SNORER.  357 

in.  I  tell  you,  pilgrim,  you  take  the  river  road  when 
you  want  —  " 

But  just  here  the  long  whistle  from  the  engine  an- 
nounced a  station,  and  the  brakeman  hurried  to  the 
door,  shouting: 

"  Zionsville  !  The  train  makes  no  stops  between  here 
and  Indianapolis ! " 

THE  CHAMPION   SNOEER. 

Front  the  "  Burlington  Hawkeye." 

It  was  the  Cedar  Rapids  sleeper.  Outside,  it  was  as 
dark  as  the  inside  of  an  ink-bottle.  In  the  sleeping-car 
people  slept.     Or  tried  it. 

Some  of  them  slept  like  Christian  men  and  women, 
peacefully,  sweetly,  and  quietly. 

Others  slept  like  demons,  malignantly,  hideously, 
fiendishly,  as  though  it  was  their  mission  to  keep  every- 
body else  awake. 

Of  these  the  man  in  lower  number  three  was  the 
worst. 

We  never  heard  any  thing  snore  like  him.  It  was 
the  most  systematic  snoring  that  was  ever  done,  even 
on  one  of  these  tournaments  of  snoring,  a  sleeping-car. 
He  didn't  begin  as  soon  as  the  lamps  were  turned  down 
and  everybody  was  in  bed.  O,  no  !  There  Avas  more 
cold-blooded  diabolism  in  his  system  than  that.  He 
waited  until  everybody  had  had  a  taste  of  sleep,  just 
to  see  how  nice  and  pleasant  it  was ;  and  then  he  broke 
in  on  their  slumbers  like  a  winged,  breathing  demon, 
and  they  never  knew  what  peace  was  again  that  night. 

He  started  out  with  a  terrific 

"  Gu-r-r-rt ! " 
that  opened  every  eye  in  the  car.     We  all  hoped  it  was 


358  CHOICE    READINGS. 

ail  accident,  however;  and,  trusting  that  he  wouldn't 
do  it  again,  we  all  forgave  him.  Then  he  blasted  our 
hopes  and  curdled  the  sweet  serenity  of  our  forgiveness 
by  a  long-drawn 

"  Gw-a-h-h-hah ! " 
that  sounded  too  much  like  business  to  be  accidental. 
Then  every  head  in  that  sleepless  sleeper  was  held  off 
the  pillow  for  a  minute,  waiting  in  breathless  suspense 
to  hear  the  worst ;  and  the  sleeper  in  "  lower  three  " 
went  on  in  long-drawn,  regular  cadences  that  indicated 
good  staying  qualities, 

"  Gwa-a-a-h  !  Gwa-a-a-a-h  !  Gahwayway  !  Gahway- 
wah  !     Gahwa-a-ah  !  " 

Evidently  it  was  going  to  last  all  night ;  and  the 
weary  heads  dropped  back  on  the  sleepless  pillows,  and 
the  swearing  began.  It  mumbled  along  in  low,  mutter- 
ing tones,  like  the  distant  echoes  of  a  profane  thunder- 
storm. Pretty  soon  "  lower  three "  gave  us  a  little 
variation.     He  shot  off  a  spiteful 

"  Gwook  !  " 
which  sounded  as  though  his  nose  had  got  mad  at  him 
and  was  going  to  strike.  Then  there  was  a  pause,  and 
we  began  to  hope  he  had  either  awakened  from  sleep  or 
strangled  to  death,  —  nobody  cared  very  particularly 
which.  But  he  disappointed  everybody  with  a  gut- 
tural 

"  Gurroch  !  " 

Then  he  paused  again  for  breath ;  and  when  he  had 
accumulated  enough  for  his  purpose  he  resumed  busi- 
ness with  a  stentorious 

"  Kowpff !  " 
that  nearly  shot  the  roof  off  the  car.     Then  he  went  on 
playing  such  fantastic  tricks  with  his  nose,  and  breath- 
ing things  that  would  make  the  immortal  gods  weep,  if 


COURTSHIP    UNDKK    DIFFICULTIES.  359 

they  did  but  hear  him.  It  seemed  an  utter,  preposter- 
ous impossibility  that  any  human  being  coukl  make  the 
monstrous,  hideous  noises  with  its  broatliing  machine 
that  the  fellow  in  "  lower  three  "  was  making  with  his. 
He  then  ran  through  all  the  ranges  of  the  nasal  gamut ; 
he  went  up  and  down  a  very  chromatic  scale  of  snores ; 
he  ran  through  intricate  and  fearful  variations  until  it 
seemed  that  his  nose  must  be  out  of  joint  in  a  thousand 
places.  All  the  night  and  all  the  day  through  he  told 
his  story ; 

"  Gawoh  !  gurrah  !  gu-r-r-r  !  Kowpff !  Gawaw-wah  ! 
gawah-hah  !  gwock  !  gwart !  gwah-h-h-h  woof !  " 

Just  as  the  other  passengers  had  consulted  together 
how  they  might  slay  him,  morning  dawned,  and  "■  lower 
number  three "  awoke.  Everybody  watched  the  cur- 
tain to  see  what  manner  of  man  it  was  that  made  the 
sleei^ing-car  a  pandemonium.  Presently  the  toilet  was 
completed,  the  curtains  parted,  and  '"  lower  number 
three  "  stood  revealed.     Great  Heavens  ! 

It  was  a  fair  young  girl,  with  golden  hair,  and  timid, 
pleading  eyes,  like  a  hunted  fawn. 


o>*;o 


COURTSHIP  UNDER  DIFFICULTIES. 

Snohbleton.  Yes,  tliere  is  tliat  ft-llow  Jones,  again.  I  declare,  the 
man  is  ubiquitous.  Wherever  I  go  with  my  cousin  Prudence  we 
stumble  across  him,  or  he  follows  her  like  her  shadow.  Do  we  take 
a  boating  ?  So  does  Jones.  Do  we  wander  on  the  beach  ?  So  does 
Jones.  Go  where  we  will,  that  fellow  follows  or  moves  before. 
Now,  that  was  a  cruel  practical  joke  which  Jones  once  played  upon 
me  at  college.  I  have  never  forgiven  him.  But  I  would  gladly 
make  a  pretence  of  doing  so,  if  T  could  have  my  revenge.  Let  me 
see.  Can't  I  manage  it?  He  is  head  over  ears  in  love  with  Pru- 
dence, but  too  bashful  to  speak.  I  half  believe  she  is  not  indiffer- 
ent to   him,  though  altogether   unacquainted.      It   may   prove  a 


360  CHOICE    READINGS. 

match,  if  I  cannot  spoil  it.     I^et  me  think.     Ha !  I  have  it.    A  bril- 
liant idea !     Jones,  beware  !     But  here  he  comes. 

Enter  Jones. 

Jones.  (^Not  seeing  Snobbleton,  and  delightedly  contemplating  a 
flower,  which  he  holds  in  his  hand.)  O,  rapture !  what  a  prize  !  It 
was  in  her  hair,  —  I  saw  it  fall  from  her  queenly  head.  (Kisses  it 
every  noio  and  then.)  How  warm  are  its  tender  leaves  from  having 
touched  her  neck !  How  doubly  sweet  is  its  perfume,  —  fresh  from 
the  fragrance  of  her  glorious  locks !  How  beautiful !  how  —  Bless 
me  !  here  is  Snobbleton,  and  we  are  enemies ! 

Snoh.     Good-morning,  Jones,  —  that  is,  if  you  will  shake  hands. 

Jones.     What !  you  —  you  forgive !     You  really  — 

Snob.  Yes,  yes,  old  fellow !  All  is  forgotten.  You  played  me 
a  rough  trick ;  but  let  bygones  be  bygones.  Will  you  not  bury 
the  hatchet? 

Jones.     With  all  my  heart,  my  dear  fellow  ! 

Snob.  What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Jones  ?  You  look  quite 
grumpy,  —  not  by  any  means  the  same  cheerful,  dashing,  rollicking 
fellow  you  were. 

Jones.     Grumpy,  —  what  is  that  ?     How  do  I  look,  Snobbleton  ? 

Snob.  O,  not  much  out  of  the  way.  Only  a  little  shaky  in  the 
shanks,  —  blue  lips,  red  nose,  cadaverous  jaws,  blood-shot  eyes, 
yellow  — 

Jones.  Bless  me,  you  don't  say  so !  {Aside.)  Confound  the 
man.  Here  have  I  been  endeavouring  to  appear  romantic  for  the 
last  month ;  and  now  to  be  called  grumpy,  —  shaky-shanked, 
cadaverous,  —  it  is  unbearable  ! 

Snob.  But  never  mind.  Cheer  up,  old  fellow  I  I  see  it  all. 
Egad !     I  know  what  it  is  to  be  in  — 

Jones.  Ah !  you  can  then  sympathize  with  me  I  You  know 
what  it  is  to  be  in  — 

Snob.  Of  course  I  do !  Heaven  preserve  me  from  the  toils ! 
What  days  of  bitterness ! 

Jones.     What  nights  of  bliss  ! 

Snob.  {Shuddering.)  And  then  the  letters, — the  interminable 
letters ! 

Jones.     O  yes,  the  letters  !  the  billet  doux  ! 

Snob.     And  the  bills,  —  the  endless  bills ! 

Jones.     {In  surprise.)     The  bills  ! 

Snob.  Yes;  and  the  bailiffs,  the  lawyers,  the  judge,  and  tho 
jury. 


COURTSHIP    UNDER    DIKFICl'LTIES,  361 

Jones.  ^Vhy,  man,  what  are  you  talking  about?  I  thought  you 
said  you  knew  what  it  was  to  be  in  — 

Snob.     In  debt.     To  he  sure,  I  did. 

Jones.  Bless  me !  I'm  not  in  debt,  — never  borrowed  a  dollar  in 
my  life.     Ah,  me!  (Sighs.)  it's  worse  than  <Aa/. 

Snob.  Worse  than  that !  Come,  now,  Jones,  there  is  onl^-  one 
thing  worse.     You're  surely  not  in  love  ? 

Jones.  Yes,  I  am.  O  Snobby,  help  me,  help  me  I  Let  me 
confide  in  you. 

Snob.  Confide  in  me  !  Certainly,  my  dear  fellow  I  See,  1  do 
not  shrink,  —  I  stand  firm. 

Jones.     Snobby,  I  —  I  love  her. 

Snob.     Whom  ? 

Jones.     Your  cousin,  Prudence. 

Snob.     Ha !  Pi'udence  Angelina  Winterbottom. 

Jones.  Now,  don't  be  angry.  Snobby  !  I  don't  mean  any  harm, 
you  know.     1  —  I  —  you  know  how  it  is. 

Snob.  Harm  !  riiy  dear  fellow.  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Angry  !  Not 
at  all.  You  have  my  consent,  old  fellow.  Take  her.  She  is  yours. 
Heaven  bless  you  both  ! 

Jones.  You  are  very  kind.  Snobby,  but  T  haven't  got  her  consent 
yet. 

Sriob.  Well,  that  is  something,  to  be  sure.  But  leave  it  all  to 
me.  She  may  be  a  little  coy,  you  know;  but,  considei'ing  your 
generous  overlooking  of  her  unfortunate  defect, — 

Jones.     Defect !     You  surprise  me. 

Snob.     AVhat !  and  you  did  not  know  of  it? 

Jones.     Not  at  all.     I  am  astonished  !     Nothing  serious  I  hope. 

Snob.  O,  no!  only  a  little  —  (He  taps  his  ear  toith  his  fnyer, 
knowingly.)     1  see,  j'ou  understand  it. 

Jones.     Merciful  Heaven  !  can  it  be?     But  really,  is  it  serious? 

Snob.     I  should  think  it  was. 

Jones.     What  1     But  is  she  ever  dangerous  ? 

Snob.     Dangerous  !     Why  should  she  be  ? 

Jones.  (Considerably  relieved.)  O,  I  perceive!  A  mere  airi- 
ness of  brain,  —  a  gentle  abberration,  —  scorning  the  dull  world,  — 
a  mild  — 

Snob.     Zounils,  man,  she's  not  cra/y  ! 

Jones.     My  dear  Snobby,  you  relieve  me.     What  then  ? 

Snub.     Slightly  deaf.     That's  all. 

Jones.     Deaf ! 


362  CHOICE    READINGS. 

S7iob.  As  a  lamp-post.  That  is,  you  must  elevate  your  voice  to  a 
considerable  pitch  in  speaking  to  her. 

Jones.  Is  it  possible !  However,  I  think  I  can  manage.  As, 
for  instance,  if  it  was  my  intention  to  make  her  a  floral  offering, 
and  I  should  say,  (elevating  his  voice  considerably,)  "  Miss,  will  you 
make  me  happy  by  accepting  these  flowers  ?  "  I  su2:)pose  she  could 
hear  me,  eh  ?     How  would  that  do  ? 

Snob.     Pshaw!     Do  you  call  that  elevated  ? 

Jones.  Well,  how  would  this  do  ?  (Speaks  very  loudly.)  "  Miss, 
will  you  make  me  happy  —  " 

Snob.     Louder,  shriller,  man  ! 

Jones.     "  Miss,  will  you  —  " 

S7iob.     Louder,  louder,  or  she  will  only  see  your  lips  move. 

Jones.  (Almost  screaming.)  "Miss,  will  you  oblige  me  by  ac- 
cepting these  flowers?" 

Snob.  There,  that  7nay  do.  Still  you  want  practice.  I  perceive 
the  lady  herself  is  approaching.  Suppose  you  retire  for  a  short 
time,  and  I  will  prepare  her  for  the  introduction. 

Jones.  Very  good.  Meantime  I  will  go  down  to  the  beach  and 
endeavour  to  acquire  the  proper  pitch.  Let  me  see  :  "  Miss,  will  you 
oblige  me  —  "  [Exit  Jones.] 

Enter  Prudence. 

Prud.  Good-morning,  cousin.  Who  was  that  speaking  so 
loudly  ? 

Snob.  Only  Jones.  Poor  fellow,  he  is  so  deaf  that  I  suppose  he 
fancies  his  own  voice  to  be  a  mere  whisper. 

Prud.     Why,  I  was  not  aware  of  this.     Is  he  vei-y  deaf? 

Snob.  Deaf  as  a  stone  fence.  To  be  sure,  he  does  not  use  an 
ear-trumpet  any  more,  but  one  must  speak  excessively  high.  Un- 
fortunate, too,  for  I  believe  he  is  in  love. 

Prud.     (  With  some  emotion.)     In  love  !  with  whom  ? 

Snob.     Can't  you  guess? 

Prud.     O,  no  ;  I  haven't  the  slightest  idea. 

Snob.  With  yourself  !  He  has  been  begging  me  to  obtain  him 
an  introduction. 

Prud.  Well,  I  have  always  thought  him  a  nice-looking  young 
man.  I  suppose  he  would  hear  me  if  I  should  say,  (speaking  loudly,) 
"  Good-morning,  Mr.  Jones  ?  " 

Snob.     (Compassionately.)     Do  you  think  he  would  hear  that  ? 

Prud.  Well,  then,  how  would,  (speaks  very  loudly,)  "  Good- 
morning,  Mr.  Jones  !  "     How  would  that  do  ? 


COURTSHIP    UNDER    DIFFICULTIES,  ^Gii 

S710I.     Tush  !    he  would  think  you  were  speaking   imder  }'our 

breath. 

Pruil.     (Almost  screaming.)     "Good-morning!" 

Snob.     A   mere  whisper,  my  dear  cousin.     But  here  he  comes. 

Now,  do  try  and  make  yourself  audible. 

Enter  Jones. 

Snob.  (Speaking  in  a  Jiigh  voice.)  Mr.  Jones,  cousin.  Miss 
Winterbottom,  Jones.  You  will  please  excuse  me  for  a  short  time. 
(He  retires,  but  remains  in  view.) 

Jones.  (Speaking  shrill  and  loud,  and  offering  some  Jiowers.) 
Miss,  will  you  accept  these  flowers?  I  plucked  them  from  their 
slumber  on  the  hill. 

Prud.     (In  an  equally  high  voice.)     Really,  sir,  I  —  I  — 

Jones.  (Aside.)  She  hesitates.  It  must  be  that  she  does  not 
hear  me.  (Increasing  his  tone.)  Miss,  will  you  accept  these  flowers 
—  FLOWERS?     I  plucked  them  sleeping  on  the  hill  —  hill. 

Prud.  (Also  increasing  her  tone.)  Certainly,  Mr.  Jones.  They 
are  beautiful  —  beau-u-tiful. 

Jones.  (Aside.)  How  she  screams  in  my  ear.  (Aloud.)  Yes, 
I  plucked  them  from  theu-  slumber  —  slumber,  on  the  hill — hill. 

Prud.  (Aside.)  Poor  man,  what  an  effort  it  seems  to  him  to 
speak.  ^ Aloud.)  I  perceive  you  are  poetical.  Are  you  fond  of 
poetry?  (Aside.)  He  hesitates.  I  must  speak  louder.  (In  a 
scream.)     Poetry  —  poetry  —  POETRY  ! 

Jones.  (Aside.)  Bless  me,  the  woman  would  wake  the  dead ! 
(Aloud.)     Yes,  Miss,  I  ad-o-r-e  it. 

Snob.  (Solus  from  behind,  rubbing  his  hands.)  Glorious  !  glo- 
rious !  I  wonder  how  loud  they  can  scream.  O,  vengeance,  thou 
art  sweet ! 

P7-ud.     Can  you  repeat  some  poetry  —  poetry  ? 

Jones.     T  only  know  one  poem.     It  is  this : 

You'd  scarce  expect  one  of  my  age  —  age, 
To  speak  in  public  on  the  stage  —  stage. 

Prud.  (Putting  her  lips  to  his  ear  and  shouting.)  Bravo  — 
bravo ! 

Jones.  (In  the  same  way.)     Thank  you!     Thank  — 

Prud.  (Putting  her  hands  over  her  ears.)  Mercy  on  us  I  Do 
you  think  I  am  deaf,  sir  ? 

Jones.  (Also  stopping  his  ears.)  And  do  you  fancy  i7ie  deaf, 
Miss? 


364  CHOICE    READINGS. 

(They  now  speak  in  their  natural  tones.) 
Prud.     Are  you  not,  sir  ?     You  surprise  me ! 
Jones.     No,   Miss.     T    was   led  to   believe  that   you  were  deaf 
Snobbleton  told  me  so. 

Prud.     Snobbleton  !     Why,  he  told  me  that  you  were  deaf. 
Jones.     Confound  the  fellow  !  he  has  been  making  game  of  us 


DAEIUS   GKEEN   AND   HIS   rLYING-MAOHINE. 

J.  T.  Trowbridge. 

If  ever  there  lived  a  Yankee  lad, 

"Wise  or  otherwise,  good  or  bad, 

Who,  seeing  the  birds  fly,  didn't  jump 

With  flapping  arms  from  stake  or  stump, 

Or,  spreading  the  tail  of  his  coat  for  a  sail. 

Take  a  soaring  leap  from  post  or  rail, 

And  wonder  why  he  couldn't  fly, 

And  flap  and  flutter  and  wish  and  trj-,  — • 

If  ever  you  knew  a  country  dunce 

Who  didn't  try  that  as  often  as  once. 

All  I  can  say  is,  that's  a  sign 

He  never  would  do  for  a  hero  of  mine. 

An  aspiring  genius  was  Dary  Green  : 

The  son  of  a  farmer,  —  age  fourteen  ; 

His  bod}'  was  long  and  lank  and  lean,  — 

Just  right  for  flying,  as  will  be  seen  ; 

He  had  two  eyes  as  bright  as  a  bean. 

And  a  freckled  nose  that  grew  between, 

A  little  awr}- ;  for  I  nuist  mention 

That  he  had  riveted  his  attention 

Upon  his  wonderful  invention. 

Twisting  his  tongue  as  he  twisted  the  strings, 

And  working  his  face  as  he  work'd  the  wings, 

And  with  every  turn  of  gimlet  or  screw 

Turning  and  screwing  his  mouth  round  too, 


DAKIUS    GREEN    AND    HIS    FLYING-MACHINE.  365 

Till  his  nose  seem'd  bent  to  catch  the  sceut, 
Around  some  corner,  of  new-baked  pies, 
And  his  wrinkled  cheeks  and  his  squinting  eyes 
Grew  pucker'd  into  a  queer  grimace, 
That  made  him  look  very  droll  in  the  face, 

And  also  veiy  wise. 
And  wise  he  must  have  been,  to  do  more 
Than  ever  a  genius  did  before. 
Excepting  Daedalus  of  yore 
And  his  son  Icarus,  who  wore 
Upon  their  backs  those  wings  of  wax 
He  had  read  of  in  the  old  almanacs. 
Darius  was  clearly  of  the  opinion. 
That  the  air  is  also  man's  dominion, 
And  that,  with  paddle  or  fin  or  pinion, 
VYe  soon  or  late  shall  navigate 
The  azure  as  now  we  sail  the  sea. 
The  thing  looks  simple  enough  to  me ; 

And,  if  you  doubt  it, 
Hear  how  Darius  reason'd  about  it: 

"  The  birds  can  fly,  an'  why  can't  I? 

Must  we  give  in,"  says  he  with  a  grin, 

"  That  the  bluebird  an'  phoebe  are  smarter'n  we  be: 

Jest  fold  our  hands,  an'  see  the  svvaller 

An'  blackbird  an'  catbird  beat  us  holler? 

Does  the  little  chatterin',  sassy  wren, 

No  bigge'rn  my  thumb,  know  more  than  men? 

Jest  show  me  that !  ur  prove  't  the  bat 

Hez  got  more  brains  than's  in  my  hat. 

An'  I'll  back  down,  an'  not  till  then  !  " 

He  argued  further :   "  Nur  I  can't  see 

What's  th'  use  o'  wings  to  a  bumble-bee, 

Fur  to  git  a  livin'  with,  more'n  to  me  ;  — 

Ain't  my  business  important' s  his'n  is? 

That  Icarus  made  a  pretty  muss,  — 

Him  an'  his  daddy  Daedalus  ; 


366  CHOICE    READINGS. 

They  might  'a'  know'd  that  wings  made  o'  wax 
Wouldu't  stand  sun-beat  an'  hard  whacks  : 
I'll  make  mine  o'  hither,  ur  suthin'  iir  other." 

And  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  tinker'd  and  plann'd, 

"  But  I  ain't  goin'  to  show  my  hand 

To  nummies  that  never  can  understand 

The  fust  idee  that's  big  an'  grand." 

So  he  kept  his  secret  from  all  the  rest. 

Safely  button'd  within  his  vest ; 

And  in  the  loft  above  the  shed 

Himself  he  locks,  with  thimble  and  thread 

And  wax  and  hammer  and  buckles  and  screws, 

And  all  such  things  as  geniuses  use  ;  — 

Two  bats  for  patterns,  curious  fellows  ! 

A  charcoal-pot  and  a  pair  of  bellows  ; 

Some  wire,  and  several  old  umbrellas  ; 

A  carriage-cover,  for  tail  and  wings  ; 

A  piece  of  harness  ;  and  straps  and  strings ; 

And  a  big  strong  box,  in  which  he  locks 

These  and  a  hundred  other  things. 

His  grinning  brothers,  Reuben  and  Burke 

And  Nathan  and  Jotham  and  Solomon,  lurke 

Around  the  corner  to  see  him  work. 

Sitting  cross-legg'd,  like  a  Turk, 

Drawing  the  wax'd-end  through  with  a  jerk, 

And  boring  the  holes  with  a  comical  quirk 

Of  his  wise  old  head,  and  a  knowing  smirk. 

But  A^ainly  they  mounted  each  other's  backs, 

And  poked  through  knot-holes  and  pried  through  cracks; 

With  wood  from  the  pile  and  straw  from  the  stacks 

He  plugg'd  the  knot-holes  and  calk'd  the  cracks ; 

And  a  dipper  of  water,  which  one  would  think 

He  had  brought  up  into  the  loft  to  drink 

When  he  chanced  to  be  dry, 

Stood  always  nigh,  for  Darius  was  sh' ! 

And,  whenever  at  work  he  happen'd  to  spy 


DARTOS   GRKEN    AND    HIS    FLYING-MACHINE.  367 

At  chink  or  crevice  a  blinking  eye, 

He  let  the  dipper  of  water  fly  : 

"  Take  that !  an',  ef  ever  ye  git  a  peep, 

Guess  ye'U  ketch  a  weasel  asleep  !  " 

And  he  sings  as  he  locks  his  big  strong  box : 

"  The  weasel's  head  is  small  an'  trim, 

An'  he  is  little  an'  long  an'  slim. 

An'  quick  of  motion  an'  nimble  of  limb, 

An',  ef  you'll  be  advised  by  me. 

Keep  wide  awake  when  ye're  ketchin'  him  !  " 

So  day  after  day 
He  stitch'd  and  tinker'd  and  hammer'd  away, 

Till  at  last  'twas  done,  — 
The  greatest  invention  under  the  Sun  ! 
"  An'  now,"  saj'S  Darius,  "  liooraj-  fur  some  fun  !  " 

'Twas  the  Fourth  of  July,  and  the  weather  was  dry. 

And  not  a  cloud  was  on  all  the  sky, 

Save  a  few  light  fleeces,  which  here  and  there, 

Half  mist,  half  air. 
Like  foam  on  the  ocean  went  floating  b}', — 
Just  as  lovely  a  morning  as  ever  was  seen 
For  a  nice  little  trip  in  a  flying-machine. 
Thought  cunning  Darius,  "  Now  I  shan't  go 
Along  'ith  the  fellers  to  see  the  show  : 
I'll  say  I've  got  sich  a  terrible  cough ! 
An'  then,  when  the  folks  'ave  all  gone  off, 
I'll  hev  full  swing  fur  to  try  the  thing. 
An'  practise  a  little  on  the  wing." 

"  Ain't  goin'  to  see  the  celebration?" 
Says  brother  Nate.     "  No  ;  botheration  ! 
I've  got  sich  a  cold  —  a  toothache  —  I  — 
My  gracious  !  —  feel's  though  I  should  fly  !" 
Said  Jotham,  ''  'Sho  !  guess  ye  better  go." 

But  Darius  said,  "  No  ! 
Shouldn't  wonder  'f  you  might  see  me,  though, 


368  CHOICE    READINGS. 

'Long  'bout  uoon,  ef  I  git  red 

O'  this  jumpiu',  thumpiu'  paiu  'n  my  head." 

For  all  the  while  to  himself  he  said,  — 

"I  tell  ye  what! 
I'll  fly  a  few  times  around  the  lot, 
To  see  how  't  seems,  then  soon's  I've  got 
The  hang  o'  the  thing,  ez  likely's  not, 
I'll  astonish  the  nation,  an'  all  creation, 
By  flyin'  over  the  celebration  ! 
Over  their  heads  I'll  sail  like  an  eagle ; 
I'll  balance  myself  on  my  wings  like  a  sea-gull ; 
I'll  dance  on  the  chimbleys  ;  I'll  stand  on  the  steeple  ; 
I'll  flop  up  to  winders  an'  scare  the  people  ! 
I'll  light  on  the  liberty-pole,  an'  crow  ; 
An'  I'll  say  to  the  gawpin'  fools  below, 
'What  world's  this  'ere  that  I've  come  near?' 
Fur  I'll  make  'em  b'lieve  I'm  a  chap  f'm  the  Moon ; 
An'  I'll  try  a  race  'ith  their  ol'  balloon  !  " 

He  crept  from  his  bed  ; 
And,  seeing  the  others  were  gone,  he  said, 
"  I'm  gittin'  over  the  cold  'n  my  head." 

And  away  he  sped. 
To  open  the  wonderful  box  in  the  shed. 

His  brothers  had  walk'd  but  a  little  way, 

When  Jotham  to  Nathan  chanced  to  say, 

"  What  is  the  feller  up  to,  hey?  " 

"  Don'o',  — the's  suthin'  ur  other  to  pay, 

Ur  he  wouldn't  'a'  stay'd  to  hum  to-da}-." 

Says  Burke,  "  His  toothache's  all  'n  his  eye ! 

He  never'd  miss  a  Fo'th-o'-Jul}', 

Ef  he  hedn't  got  some  machine  to  try." 

Then  Sol,  the  little  one,  spoke  :  "  By  darn 

Le's  hurry  back,  an'  hide  'n  the  barn. 

An'  pay  him  fur  tellin'  us  that  yarn  !  " 

"  Agreed  !  "     Through  the  orchard  they  creep  back, 


DARIUS    GREEN    AND    HIS    FLYING-MACHINE.  369 

Along  by  the  fences,  behind  the  stack, 
And  one  by  one,  through  a  hole  in  the  wall, 
In  under  the  dusty  barn  the}-  crawl, 
Dress'd  in  their  Sunday  garments  all ; 
And  a  ver}-  astonisliing  sight  was  that. 
When  each  in  his  cobwebb'd  coat  and  hat 
Came  up  through  the  floor  like  an  ancient  rat. 
And  there  they  hid  ;  and  Reuben  slid 
The  fastenings  back,  and  the  door  undid. 

"  Keep  dark  !  "  said  he, 
"  While  I  squint  an'  see  what  the'  is  to  see. 

As  knights  of  old  put  on  their  mail,  — 

From  head  to  foot  an  iron  suit, 

Iron  jacket  and  iron  boot. 

Iron  breeches,  and  on  the  head 

No  hat,  but  an  iron  pot  instead, 

And  under  the  chin  the  bail, 

(I  believe  they  call'd  the  thing  a  helm.)  — 

Then  sallied  forth  to  overwhelm 

The  dragons  and  pagans  that  plagued  the  realm  : 

So  this  modern  knight  prepared  for  flight, 

Put  on  his  wings  and  strapp'd  them  tight,  — 

Jointed  and  jaunty,  strong  and  light,  — 

Buckled  them  fast  to  shoulder  and  hip,  — 

Ten  feet  they  measured  from  tip  to  tip  ! 

And  a  helm  had  he,  but  that  he  wore, 

Not  on  his  head,  like  those  of  yore. 

But  more  like  the  helm  of  a  ship. 

"  Hush  ! "  Reuben  said,  "  he's  up  in  the  shed ! 
He's  opeu'd  the  winder,  —  I  see  his  head ! 
He  stretches  it  out,  an'  pokes  it  about, 
Lookin'  to  see  'f  the  coast  is  clear, 

An'  nobody  near  ;  — 
Guess  he  don'o'  who's  hid  in  here ! 
He's  riggin'  a  spring-board  over  the  sill ! 


370  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Stop  laffln',  Solomon  !     Burke,  keep  still ! 

He's  a  climbin'  out  now  —  Of  all  the  things ! 

What's  he  got  on?     I  van,  it's  wings  ! 

An'  that  t'other  thing?     I  vum,  it's  a  tail ! 

An'  there  he  sets  like  a  hawk  on  a  rail ! 

Steppin'  careful,  he  travels  the  length 

Of  his  spring-board,  and  teeters  to  try  its  strength. 

Now  he  stretches  his  wings,  like  a  monstrous  bat ; 

Peeks  over  his  shoulder,  this  way  an'  that, 

Fur  to  see  'f  the'  *s  any  one  passin'  by, 

But  the'  's  on'}'  a  ca'f  an'  a  goslin'  nigh. 

They  turn  up  at  him  wonderin'  eye, 

To  see  —  The  dragon  !  he's  goin'  to  %  ! 

Awa}'  he  goes  !     Jimminy  !  what  a  jump  ! 

Flop  —  flop  —  an'  plump  to  the  ground  with  a  thump! 

Flutt'rin'  an'  flonnd'rin',  all'n  a  lump!  " 

As  a  demon  is  hurl'd  by  an  angel's  spear, 

Heels  over  head,  to  his  proper  sphere,  — 

Heels  over  head,  and  head  over  heels, 

Dizzily  down  the  abyss  he  wheels,  — 

So  fell  Darius.     Upon  his  crown. 

In  the  midst  of  the  barn-yard,  he  came  down, 

In  a  wonderful  whirl  of  tangled  strings, 

Broken  braces  and  broken  springs, 

Broken  tail  and  broken  wings, 

Shooting-stars,  and  various  things,  — 

Barn-yard  litter  of  straw  and  chaff. 

And  much  that  wasn't  so  sweet  by  half. 

Away  with  a  bellow  fled  the  calf. 

And  what  was  that?     Did  the  gosling  laugh? 

'Tis  a  merry  roar  from  the  old  barn-door, 

And  he  hears  the  voice  of  Jotliam  crying ; 

"  Say,  D'rius  !  how  do  you  like  flyin'?" 

Slowly,  ruefully,  where  he  lay, 

Darius  just  turn'd  and  look'd  that  way, 

As  he  stanch'd  his  sorrowful  nose  with  his  cuff. 


HOW  ''ruby"  played.  371 

•'  Wal,  I  like  flyiu'  well  enough," 

He  said  ;  "  but  the'  ain't  sich  a  thunderin'  sigh' 

O'  fun  in't  when  ye  come  to  light." 

I  just  have  room  for  the  moral  here  : 

And  this  is  the  moral,  —  Stick  to  your  sphere ; 

Or,  if  you  insist,  as  you  have  the  right. 

On  spreading  your  wings  for  a  loftier  flight, 

The  moral  is,  —  Take  care  how  you  light. 


HOW  "KUBY"  PLAYED. 

Dr.  G.  W,  Bagby. 

Well,  sir,  he  had  the  blamedest,  biggest,  catty-cornedest  piannei 
you  ever  laid  eyes  on  ;  somethin'  like  a  distracted  billiard  table  on 
three  legs.  The  lid  was  hoisted,  and  mighty  well  it  was.  If  it 
hadn't  been,  he'd  a  tore  the  entire  inside  clean  out,  and  scattered 
'em  to  the  four  winds  of  heaven. 

Played  loell  f  You  bet  he  did ;  but  don't  interrupt  me.  When 
he  first  sit  down,  he  'peai'ed  to  keer  mighty  little  'bout  playin',  and 
wisht  he  hadn't  come.  He  tweedle-leede'd  a  little  on  the  treble, 
and  twoodle-oodled  some  on  the  base, — just  foolin'  and  boxin'  the 
thing's  jaws  for  bein'  in  his  way.  And  I  says  to  a  man  settiu'  next 
to  me,  says  I,  "What  sort  of  fool  playin'  is  that?"  And  he  says, 
"  Heish ! "  But  presently  his  hands  commenced  chasin'  one  another 
up  and  down  the  keys,  like  a  passel  of  rats  scamperin'  through  a 
garret  very  swift.  Parts  of  it  was  sweet,  though,  and  reminded  me 
of  a  sugar  squirrel  turnin'  the  wheel  of  a  candy  cage. 

"Now,"  I  says  to  my  neighbour,  "he's  showin'  off.  He  thinks 
he's  a-doiu'  of  it,  but  he  ain't  got  no  idee,  no  plan  of  nothin'.  If 
he'd  play  me  a  tune  of  some  kind  or  other  I'd  —  " 

But  my  neighbor  says  "  Heish  !  "  very  impatient. 

I  was  just  about  to  git  up  and  go  home,  bein'  tired  of  that  fool- 
ishness, when  I  heard  a  little  bird  waking  up  away  off  in  the  woods, 
and  call  sleepy-like  to  his  mate,  and  I  looked  up,  and  see  that  Rubin 
was  beginning  to  take  some  interest  in  his  business,  and  I  sit  down 
again.  It  was  the  peep  of  day.  The  light  came  faint  from  the 
east,  the  breezes  blowed  gentle  and  fresh,  some  more  birds  waked 
up  in  the  orchard,  then  some  more  in  the  trees  near  the  house,  and 


372  CHOICE    READINGS. 

all  begun  singin'  together.  People  began  to  stir,  and  the  gal 
opened  the  shutters.  Just  then  the  first  beam  of  the  sun  fell  upon 
the  blossoms  a  leetle  more,  and  it  techt  the  roses  on  the  bushes,  and 
the  next  thing  it  was  broad  day ;  the  sun  fairly  blazed,  the  birds 
sung  like  they'd  split  their  little  throats  ;  all  the  leaves  was  movin', 
and  flashin'  diamonds  of  dew,  and  the  whole  wide  world  was  bright 
and  happy  as  a  king.  Seemed  to  me  like  there  was  a  good  break- 
fast in  every  house  in  the  land,  and  not  a  sick  child  or  woman  any- 
where.    It  was  a  fine  mornin'. 

And  I  says  to  my  neighbour,  "  That's  music,  that  is." 

But  he  glared  at  me  like  he'd  like  to  cut  my  throat. 

Presently  the  wind  turned ;  it  begun  to  thicken  up,  and  a  kind 
of  gray  mist  came  over  things ;  I  got  low-spirited  directly.  Then 
a  silver  rain  begun  to  fall.  I  could  see  the  drops  touch  the  ground ; 
some  flashed  up  like  long  pearl  ear-rings,  and  the  rest  rolled  away 
like  round  rubies.  It  was  pretty  but  melancholy.  Then  the  pearls 
gathered  themselves  into  long  strands  and  necklaces,  and  then  they 
melted  into  thin  silver  streams,  running  between  golden  gravels ; 
and  then  the  streams  joined  each  other  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill, 
and  made  a  brook  that  flowed  silent,  except  that  you  could  kinder 
see  the  music,  specially  when  the  bushes  on  the  banks  moved  as 
the  music  went  along  down  the  valley.  I  could  smell  the  flowers 
in  the  meadow.  But  the  Sun  didn't  shine,  nor  the  birds  sing;  it 
was  a  foggy  day,  but  not  cold. 

The  most  curious  thing  was  the  little  white  angel-boy,  like  you 
see  in  pictures,  that  run  ahead  of  the  music-brook,  and  led  it  on 
and  on,  away  out  of  the  world,  where  no  man  ever  was,  certain.  I 
could  see  that  boy  just  as  plain  as  I  see  you.  Then  the  moonlight 
came,  without  any  sunset,  and  shone  on  the  graveyards,  where  some 
few  ghosts  lifted  their  hands  and  went  over  the  wall ;  and  between 
the  black,  sharp-top  trees  splendid  marble  houses  rose  up,  with  fine 
ladies  in  the  lit-up  windows,  and  men  that  loved  'em,  but  could 
never  get  a-nigh  'em,  who  played  on  guitars  under  the  trees,  and 
made  me  that  miserable  I  could  have  cried,  because  I  wanted  to 
love  somebody,  T  don't  know  who,  better  than  the  Juen  with  the 
guitars  did. 

Then  the  Sun  went  down,  it  got  dark,  tlie  wind  moaned  and  wept 
like  a  lost  child  for  its  dead  mother,  and  I  could  a  got  up  then  and 
there  and  preached  a  better  sermon  than  any  I  ever  listened  to. 
There  wasn't  a  thing  in  the  world  left  to  live  for,  not  a  blame 
thing,  and  yet  I  didn't  want  the  music  to  stop  one  bit.     It  was 


HOW  "ruby"  played.  373 

happier  to  be  miserable  than  to  be  happy  without  being  miserable. 
I  couldn't  imderstand  it.  I  hung  my  head  and  pulled  out  my 
handkerchief,  and  blowed  my  nose  loud  to  keep  me  from  cryin'. 
My  eyes  is  weak  anyway ;  I  didn't  want  anybody  to  be  a-gazin'  at 
me  a-snivlin',  and  it's  nobody's  business  what  I  do  with  mj-  nose. 
It's  mine.  But  some  several  glared  at  me  mad  as  blazes.  Then,  all 
of  a  sudden,  old  Rubin  changed  his  tune.  He  ripped  out  and  he 
rared,  he  tipped  and  he  tared,  he  pranced  and  he  charged  like  the 
grand  entry  at  a  circus.  'Feared  to  me  that  all  the  gas  in  the 
house  was  turned  on  at  once,  things  got  so  bright,  and  I  hilt  up  my 
head,  ready  to  look  any  inan  in  the  face,  and  not  afraid  of  nothin'. 
It  was  a  cii'cus,  and  a  brass  band,  and  a  big  ball  all  goin'  on  at  the 
same  time.  He  lit  into  them  keys  like  a  thousand  of  brick ;  he 
give  em  no  rest  day  or  night ;  he  set  every  livin'  joint  in  me  argoin' ; 
and,  not  bein'  able  to  stand  it  no  longer,  I  jumped  spang  onto  my 
seat,  and  jest  hollored, 

"  Go  it,  my  Ruhe  !  " 

Every  blamed  man,  woman,  and  child  in  the  house  riz  on  me, 
and  shouted,  "  Put  him  out !  put  him  out !  " 

"  Put  your  great  grandmother's  grizzly-gray-greenish  cat  into  the 
middle  of  next  month  !  "  I  says.  "  Tech  me  if  you  dare  !  •  I  paid 
my  money,  and  you  jest  come  a-nigh  me !  " 

With  that  some  several  policemen  run  up,  and  I  had  to  simmer 
down.  But  I  would  a  fit  any  fool  that  laid  hands  on  me,  for  I  was 
bound  to  hear  lluby  out  or  die. 

He  had  changed  his  tune  again.  Pie  hop-light  ladies  and  tip- 
toed fine  from  end  to  end  of  the  key-board.  He  played  soft  and 
low  and  solenm.  I  heard  the  church  bells  over  the  hills.  The 
candles  of  heaven  was  lit,  one  by  one;  I  saw  the  stars  rise.  The 
great  organ  of  eternity  began  to  play  from  the  world's  end  to  the 
world's  end,  and  all  the  angels  w'ent  to  prayei's.  *  *  *  *  Then 
the  music  changed  to  water,  full  of  feeling  that  couldn't  be  thought, 
and  began  to  drop  —  drip,  drop  —  drip,  drop,  clear  and  sweet,  like 
tears  of  joy  falling  into  a  lake  of  glory.  It  was  sweeter  than  that. 
It  was  as  sweet  as  a  sweet-heart  sweetened  with  white  sugar  mixt 
with  powdered  silver  and  seed  diamonds.  It  was  too  sweet.  I 
tell  you  the  audience  cheered.  Rubin  he  kinder  bowed,  like  he 
wanted  to  say,  '-IMuch  obleeged,  but  I'd  rather  you  wouldn't  in- 
terrup'  me." 

He  stopt  a  moment  or  two  to  ketcli  breath.  Then  he  got  mad. 
He  run  his  fingers  through  his  liair,  he  shoved  up  his  sleeve,  he 


874  CHOICE    READINGS. 

opened  his  coat  tails  a  leetle  further,  he  drug  up  his  stool,  he  leaned 
over,  and,  sir,  he  just  went  for  that  old  planner.  He  slapt  her  face, 
he  boxed  her  jaws,  he  pulled  her  nose,  he  pinched  her  ears,  and  he 
scratched  her  cheeks  until  she  fairly  yelled.  He  knockt  her  down 
and  he  stampt  on  her  shameful.  She  bellowed  like  a  bull,  she 
bleated  like  a  calf,  she  howled  like  a  hound,  she  squealed  like  a 
pig,  she  shrieked  like  a  rat,  and  then  he  wouldn't  let  her  up.  He 
run  a  quarter  stretch  down  the  low  grounds  of  the  base,  till  he  got 
clean  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  and  you  heard  thunder  galloping 
after  thunder,  through  the  hollows  and  caves  of  perdition;  and 
then  he  fox-chased  his  right  hand  with  his  left  till  he  got  way  out 
of  the  treble  into  the  clouds,  whar  the  notes  was  finer  than  the  pints 
of  cambric  needles,  and  you  couldn't  hear  nothin'  but  the  shadders 
of  'em.  And  then  he  wouldn't  let  the  old  planner  go.  He  far'ard 
two'd,  he  crost  over  first  gentleman,  he  chassade  right  and  left, 
back  to  your  places,  he  all-hands'd  aroun',  ladies  to  the  right, 
promenade  all,  in  and  out,  here  and  there,  back  and  forth,  up  and 
down,  perpetual  motion,  double  twisted  and  turned  and  tacked  and 
tangled  into  forty-eleven  thousand  double  bow-knots. 

By  jinks  !  it  was  a  mixtery.  And  then  he  wouldn't  let  the  old 
planner  go.  He  fecht  up  his  right  wing,  he  fecht  up  his  left  wing, 
he  fecht  up  his  center,  he  fecht  up  his  reserves.  He  fired  by  file, 
he  fired  by  platoons,  by  company,  by  regiments,  and  by  brigades. 
He  opened  his  cannon,  —  siege  guns  down  thar.  Napoleons  here, 
twelve-pounders  yonder,  —  big  guns,  little  guns,  middle-sized  guns, 
round  shot,  shells,  shrapnels,  grape,  canister,  mortar,  mines  and 
magazines,  every  livin'  battery  and  bom  a-goin'  at  the  same  time. 
The  house  trembled,  the  lights  danced,  the  walls  shuk,  the  floor 
come  up,  the  ceilin'  come  down,  the  sky  split,  the  ground  rockt, 
—  heavens  and  earth,  creation,  sweet  potatoes,  Moses,  ninepences, 
glory,  ten-penny  nails,  Sampson  in  a  'simmon  tree,  Tump,  Tompson 
in  a  tumbler-cart,  roodle-oodle-oodle-oodle  —  ruddle-uddle-uddle- 
uddle — raddle-addle-addle-addle — riddle-iddle-iddle-iddle  —  reedle- 
eedle-eedle-eedle  —  p-r-r-r-rlank  I  Bang  !  1  I  lang  !  perlang  ! 
p-r-r-r-r-r  !  I      Bang  !  !  I 

With  that  bang !  he  lifted  himself  bodily  into  the  a'r  and  lie 
come  down  with  his  knees,  his  ten  fingers,  his  ten  toes,  his  elbows, 
and  his  nose,  striking  every  single  solitary  key  on  the  planner  at 
the  same  time.  Tlie  thing  busted  and  went  off  into  seventeen 
hundred  and  fifty-seven  thousand  five  hundred  and  forty-two  hemi- 
demi-semi  quivers,  and  I  know'd  no  mo'. 


OUK    GUIDES.  375 

When  I  come  to,  I  were  under  ground  about  twenty  foot,  in  a 
place  they  call  Oyster  Bay,  treatin'  a  Yankee  that  I  never  laid  eyes 
on  before,  and  never  expect  to  agin.  Day  was  breakin'  by  the  time 
I  got  to  the  St.  Xicholas  Hotel,  and  I  pledge  you  my  word  I  did 
not  know  my  name.  The  man  asked  me  the  nmnber  of  my  room, 
and  I  told  him,  "  Hot  music  on  the  half-sliell  for  two !  " 


.ji^c 


OUE   GUIDES. 

Mark  Twain. 

European  guides  know  about  enough  English  to  tangle 
every  thing  up  so  that  a  man  can  make  neither  head  noi-  tail 
of  it.  They  know  their  story  by  heart,  —  the  history  of 
every  statue,  painting,  cathedral,  or  other  wonder  they  show 
you.  They  know  it  and  tell  it  as  a  parrot  would,  —  and  if 
you  interrupt,  and  throw  them  off  the  track,  they  have  to  go 
back  and  begin  over  again.  All  their  lives  long,  they  are 
employed  in  showing  strange  things  to  foreigners,  and  listen- 
ing to  their  bursts  of  admiration. 

It  is  human  nature  to  take  delight  in  exciting  admiration. 
It  is  what  prompts  children  to  say  "  smart"  things,  and  do 
absurd  ones,  and  in  other  ways  "  show  off"  when  company 
is  present.  It  is  what  makes  gossips  turn  out  in  rain  and 
storm  to  go  and  be  the  first  to  tell  a  startling  bit  of  news. 
Think,  then,  what  a  passion  it  becomes  with  a  guide,  whose 
privilege  it  is,  every  day,  to  show  to  strangers  wonders  that 
throw  them  into  perfect  ecstasies  of  admiration  !  He  gets 
so  that  he  could  not  by  any  possibilit}'  live  in  a  soberer 
atmosphere. 

After  we  discovered  this,  we  never  went  into  ecstasies  anj- 
more,  —  we  never  admired  any  thing,  —  we  never  showed 
any  l)ut  imi)assible  faces  and  stupid  indifference  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  sublimest  wonders  a  guide  had  to  display.  We 
had  found  their  weak  point.  We  have  made  good  use  of  it 
ever  since.  We  have  made  some  of  those  people  savage.,  at 
times,  but  we  have  never  lost  our  serenity. 


376  CHOICE    READINGS. 

The  doctor  asks  the  questions  generally,  because  he  can 
keep  his  countenance,  and  look  more  like  an  inspired  idiot, 
and  throw  more  imbecility  into  the  tone  of  his  voice  than 
any  man  that  lives.     It  comes  natural  to  him. 

The  guides  in  Genoa  are  delighted  to  secure  an  American 
party,  because  Americans  so  much  wonder,  and  deal  so  much 
in  sentiment  and  emotion  before  any  relic  of  Columbus. 
Our  guide  there  fidgeted  about  as  if  he  had  swallowed  a 
spring  mattress.  He  was  full  of  animation,  —  full  of  impa- 
tience.    He  said  : 

"Come  wis  me,  genteelmen  !  —  come!  I  show  you  ze 
letter  writing  by  Christopher  Colombo  !  —  write  it  himself  ! 
—  write  it  wis  his  own  hand  !  —  come  !  " 

He  took  us  to  the  municipal  palace.  After  much  impres- 
sive fumbling  of  keys  and  opening  of  locks,  the  stained  and 
aged  document  was  spread  before  us.  The  guide's  eyes 
sparkled.  He  danced  about  us  and  tapped  the  parchment 
with  his  finger : 

"What  I  tell  you,  genteelmen!  Is  it  not  so?  See! 
handwriting  Christopher  Colombo  !  —  write  it  himself !  " 

We  looked  indifferent, — unconcerned.  The  doctor  ex- 
amined the  document  very  deliberately,  during  a  painful 
pause.     Then  he  said,  without  any  show  of  interest,  — 

"Ah, — Ferguson,  —  what  —  what  did  3'ou  say  was  the 
name  of  the  party  who  wrote  this  ?  " 

"  Christopher  Colombo  !    ze  great  Christopher  Colombo  !  " 

Another  deliberate  examination. 

"  Ah,  — did  he  write  it  himself,  or,  — or  how?  " 

"  He  write  it  himself  !  —  Christopher  Colombo  !  he's  own 
handwriting,  write  by  himself  !  " 

Then  the  doctor  laid  the  document  down  and  said,  — 

"Why,  I  have  seen  boys  in  America  only  fourteen  years 
old  that  could  write  better  than  that." 

"  But  zis  is  ze  great  Christo  —  " 

"I  don't  care  who  it  is!  It's  the  worst  writing  I  ever 
saw.  Now  you  mustn't  think  you  can  impose  on  us  because 
we  are  strangers.     We  are  not  fools,  113-  a  good  deal.    If  you 


OUR    GUIDES.  377 

have  got  any  specimens  of  penmanship  of  real  merit,  trot 
them  out !  —  and  if  you  haven't,  drive  on  !  " 

We  drove  on.  The  guide  was  considerably  shaken  up, 
but  he  made  one  more  venture.  He  had  something  which  he 
thought  would  overcome  us.     He  said,  — 

"  Ah,  genteelmen,  you  come  wis  us  !  I  show  you  beauti- 
ful, O,  magnificent  bust  Christopher  Colombo! — splendid, 
grand,  magnificent ! " 

He  brought  us  before  the  beautiful  bust,  —  for  it  tvas 
beautiful,  —  and  sprang  back  and  struck  an  attitude  : 

"  Ah,  look,  genteelmen  !  —  beautiful,  grand,  —  bust  Clu'is- 
topher  Colombo  !  —  beautiful  bust,  beautiful  pedestal !  " 

The  doctor  put  up  his  eye-glass,  procured  for  such  occa- 
sions : 

"Ah,  —  what  did  you  saj'  this  gentleman's  name  was?" 

"  Christopher  Colombo  !    ze  great  Christopher  Colombo  !  " 

"  Christopher  Colombo,  —  the  great  Christopher  Colombo. 
Well,  what  did  7ie  do?" 

"  Discover  America  !  —  discover  America,  O,  ze  devil !  " 

"Discover  America?  No,  —  that  statement  will  hardl}' 
wash.  We  are  just  from  America  ourselves.  We  heard 
nothing  about  it.  Christopher  Colombo,  —  pleasant  name  ; 
—  is  —  is  he  dead  ?  " 

"  O  corpo  di  Baccho  !  —  three  hundred  year  !  " 

"What  did  he  die  of?" 

"I  do  not  know.     I  cannot  tell." 

"Small-pox,  think?" 

"  I  do  not  know,  genteelmen,  —  I  do  not  know  what  he 
die  of." 

"Measles,  likely?" 

"Maybe,  —  maybe.  I  do  not  know,  —  I  think  he  die  of 
something." 

"  Parents  living  ?  " 

"  Im-posseeble ! " 

"  Ah,  —  which  is  the  bust  and  which  is  the  pedestal?" 

"  Santa  Maria  !  —  zis  ze  bust !  —  zis  ze  pedestal !  " 

"Ah,  I  see,  I  see,  —  happy  combination, — very  happy 


378  CHOICE     READINGS. 

combination  indeed.  Is  —  is  this  the  first  time  this  gentle- 
was  ever  on  a  bust?" 

"That  joke  was  lost  on  the  foreigner, — guides  cannot 
master  the  subtleties  of  the  American  joke. 

We  have  made  it  interesting  for  this  Roman  guide.  Yes- 
terday we  spent  three  or  four  hours  in  the  Vatican  again, 
that  wonderful  world  of  curiosities.  We  came  very  near 
expressing  interest  sometimes,  even  admiration.  It  was 
hard  to  keep  from  it.  We  succeeded,  though.  Nobody  else 
ever  did,  in  the  Vatican  museums.  The  guide  was  bewild- 
ered, nonplussed.  He  walked  his  legs  off,  nearly,  hunting 
up  extraordinary  things,  and  exhausted  all  his  ingenuity  on 
us,  but  it  was  a  failure  ;  we  never  showed  any  interest  in 
any  thing.  He  had  reserved  what  he  considered  to  be  his 
greatest  wonder  till  the  last,  —  a  royal  Egyptian  mummy, 
the  best  preserved  in  the  world,  perhaps.  He  took  us  there. 
He  felt  so  sure,  this  time,  that  some  of  his  old  enthusiasm 
came  back  to  him  :  — 

"  See,  genteelmen  !  —  Mummy  !    Mummy  !  " 

The  e3'e-glass  came  up  as  calmly,  as  deliberately  as  ever. 

"Ah,  —  Ferguson,  —  what  did  I  understand  you  to  say 
the  gentleman's  name  was  ?  ' ' 

"  Name  ?  —  he  got  no  name  !  —  Mummy  !  —  'Gyptian 
mummy ! " 

"  Yes,  yes.     Born  here?" 

"  No.     'Gyptian  mummy." 

"Ah,  just  so.     Frenchman,  I  presume?" 

"  No  !  —  not  Frenchman,  not  Roman  !  —  born  in  Eg3"pta  I  " 

"  Born  in  P^gypta.  Never  heard  of  Egypta  before.  For- 
eign locality,  likely.  Mummy,  —  mummy.  How  calm  he  is, 
how  self-possessed  !     Is  —  ah  !  —  is  he  dead  ?  " 

"  O  sacre  hleu!   been  dead  three  thousan'  year !  " 

The  doctor  turned  on  him  savagely  : 

"  Here,  now,  what  do  you  mean  by  such  conduct  as  this? 
Pla3ing  us  for  Chinamen  because  we  are  strangers  and  trying 
to  learn  !  Trying  to  impose  your  vile  secondhand  carcasses 
onus!     Thunder  and  lightning  !     I've  a  notion  to  —  to  —  if 


MR,  Pickwick's  proposal   to  mrs.  bardell.  379 

you've  got  a  nice  fresh  corpse,  fetch  him  out !  —  or  we'll 
make  a  mummy  of  you  !  " 

We  make  it  exceedingly  interesting  for  this  Frenchman. 
However,  he  has  paid  us  back,  partly,  without  knowmg  it. 
He  came  to  the  hotel  this  morning  to  ask  if  we  were  up,  and 
he  endeavoured,  as  well  as  he  could,  to  describe  us,  so  that 
the  landlord  would  know  which  persons  he  meant.  He  fin- 
ished with  the  casual  remark  that  we  were  lunatics.  The 
observation  was  so  innocent  and  so  honest  that  it  amounted 
to  a  very  good  thing  for  a  guide  to  say. 

Our  Roman  Ferguson  is  the  most  patient,  unsuspecting, 
long-suffering  subject  we  have  had  yet.  We  shall  be  sorry 
to  part  with  him.  We  have  enjoyed  his  society  very  much. 
We  trust  he  has  enjoyed  ours,  but  we  are  harrassed  with 
doubts. 


ME.   PICKWICK'S  PROPOSAL  TO  MES.  BAEDELL. 

Chari.es  Dickens. 

It  was  evident  that  something  of  great  importance  was  in 
contemplation,  but  what  that  something  was  not  even  Mrs. 
Bardell  herself  had  been  enabled  to  discover. 

"  Mrs  Bardell,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick  at  last,  as  that  amiable 
female  approached  the  termination  of  a  prolonged  dusting  of 
the  apartment. 

"  Sir,"  said  Mrs.  Bardell. 

"  Your  little  boy  is  a  very  long  time  gone." 

"Why,  it  is  a  good  long  way  to  the  Borough,  sir,"  remon- 
strated Mrs.  Bardell. 

"  Ah,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  "  very  true  ;  so  it  is." 

Mr.  Pickwick  relapsed  into  silence,  and  Mrs.  Bardell  re- 
sumed her  dusting. 

"  Mrs.  Bardell,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick  at  the  expiration  of  a 
few  minutes. 

"  Sir,"  said  Mrs.  Bardell  again. 

"  Do  you  think  it's  a  much  greater  expense  to  keep  two 
people  than  to  keep  one  ?  " 


380  CHOICE    READINGS. 

"  La,  Mr.  Pickwick,"  said  Mrs.  Bardell,  colouring  up  to 
the  very  border  of  her  cap,  as  she  fancied  she  observed  a 
species  of  inatrimonial  twinkle  in  the  eyes  of  her  lodger  ; 
"  La,  Mr.  Pickwick,  wliat  a  question  !  " 

"  Well,  but  do  you?  "  inquired  Mr.  Pickwick. 

"That  depends,"  said  Mrs.  Bardell,  approaching  the 
duster  ver}'  near  to  Mr.  Pickwick's  elbow,  which  was 
l)lanted  on  the  table  ;  ' '  that  depends  a  good  deal  upon  the 
person,  you  know,  Mr.  Pickwick  ;  and  whether  it's  a  saving 
and  careful  person,  sir." 

"That's  very  true,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick;  "but  the  person 
I  have  in  my  e3e  (here  he  looked  very  hard  at  Mrs.  Bardell) 
1  think  possesses  these  qualities,  and  has,  moreover,  a  con- 
siderable knowledge  of  the  world,  and  a  great  deal  of  sharp- 
ness, Mrs.  Bai'dell,  which  may  be  of  material  use  to  me." 

"  La,  Mr.  Pickwick,"  said  Mrs.  Bardell,  the  crimson  ris- 
ing to  her  cap-border  again. 

"  I  do,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  growing  energetic,  as  was  his 
wont  in  speaking  of  a  subject  which  interested  him  ;  "I  do, 
indeed ;  and,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Mrs.  Bardell,  I  have 
made  up  my  mind." 

"  Dear  me,  sir  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bardell. 

"You'll  think  it  not  very  strange  now,"  said  the  amiable 
Mr.  Pickwick,  with  a  good-Iumioured  glance  at  his  compan- 
ion, "  that  I  never  consulted  you  about  this  matter,  and  never 
mentioned  it  till  I  sent  your  little  bo}'  out  this  morning,  — 
eh?" 

Mrs.  Bardell  could  only  reply  by  a  look.  She  had  long 
worshipped  Mr.  Pickwick  at  a  distance,  but  here  she  was, 
all  at  once,  raised  to  a  pinnacle  to  which  her  wildest  and 
most  extravagant  hopes  had  never  dared  to  aspire.  Mr. 
Pickwick  was  going  to  propose,  —  a  deliberate  plan,  too, — 
sent  her  little  boy  to  the  Borough  to  get  him  out  of  tlie  way  ; 
how  thoughtful,  — how  considerate  ! 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  "  what  do  you  think?" 

"O,  Mr.  Pickwick,"  said  Mrs.  Bardell,  trembling  with 
agitation,  "you're  very  kind,  sir." 


MR.  Pickwick's  proposal  to  mrs.  barbell.         381 

"It'll  save  you  a  good  deal  of  trouble,  won't  it?"  said 
Mr.  Pickwick. 

"•  O,  I  never  tliought  au}-  tiling  of  the  trouble,  sir,"  re- 
plied Mrs.  Bardell ;  "and  of  course,  I  should  take  more 
trouble  to  please  you  then  tlian  ever  ;  but  it  is  so  kind  of 
you,  Mr.  Pickwick,  to  have  so  much  consideration  for  my 
loneliness." 

^  Ah,  to  be  sure,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick  ;  "I  never  thought 
of  that.  When  I  am  in  town  you'll  always  have  somebody 
to  sit  with  3'ou.     To  be  sure,  so  you  will." 

"  I'm  sure  I  ought  to  be  a  veiy  happy  woman,"  said 
Mrs.  Bardell. 

"  And  your  little  boy  —  "  said  Mr.  Pickwick. 

"  Bless  his  heart,"  interposed  Mrs.  Bardell,  with  a  mater- 
nal sob. 

"  He,  too,  will  have  a  companion,"  resumed  Mr.  Pickwick, 
"  a  lively  one,  who'll  teach  him,  I'll  be  bound,  more  tricks 
ill  a  week  than  he  would  ever  learn  in  a  year."  And  Mr. 
Pickwick  smiled  placidly. 

"  O  you  dear  !  "  said  Mrs.  Bardell. 

Mr.  Pickwick  started. 

"O  you  kind,  good,  playful  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Bardell; 
and  without  more  ado,  she  rose  fi^om  her  chair  and  flung  her 
arms  around  Mr.  Pickwick's  neck,  with  a  cataract  of  tears 
and  a  chorus  of  sobs. 

"Bless  my  soul!"  cried  the  astonished  Mr.  Pickwick; 
"Mrs.  Bardell,  my  good  woman  —  dear  me,  what  a  situa- 
tion—  pray  consider,  Mrs.  Bardell,  don't  —  if  an3'body 
should  come  —  " 

"  O,  let  them  come  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bardell,  frantically  ; 
"  I'll  never  leave  you,  — dear,  kind,  good  soul ;  "  and,  with 
these  words,  Mrs.  Bardell  clung  the  tighter. 

"Mercy  upon  me!"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  struggling  vio- 
lently, "  I  hear  somebody  coming  up  the  stairs.  Don't, 
don't,  there's  a  good  creature,  don't."  But  entreaty  and  re- 
monstrance were  alike  unavailing,  for  Mrs.  Bardell  had 
fainted   in   Mr.  Pickwick's   arms,  and  before  he  could  gain 


382  CHOICE    READINGS. 

time  to  deposit  her  on  a  chair,  Master  Bardell  entered  the 
room,  ushering  in  Mr.  Tupman,  Mr.  Winkle,  and  Mr.  Snod- 
grass. 

SAM  WELLER'S   VALENTINE. 

Charles  Dickens. 

' '  I've  done  now,"  said  Sam,  with  slight  embarrassment ; 
"I've  been  a-writin'." 

"  So  I  see,"  replied  Mr.  Weller.  "  Not  to  any  j'oung 
'ooman,  I  hope,  Sammy." 

"  Why,  it's  no  use  a-sayin'  it  ain't,"  replied  Sam,  "  It's  a 
walentine." 

"A  what?"  exclaimed  Mr.  Weller,  apparently  horror- 
stricken  b}'  the  word. 

"  A  walentine,"  replied  Sam. 

"  Samivel,  Samivel,"  said  Mr.  Weller,  in  reproachful  ac- 
cents, "  I  didn't  think  you'd  ha'  done  it.  Arter  the  warnin' 
you've  had  o'  your  father's  wicious  propensities  ;  arter  all 
I've  said  to  30U  upon  this  here  wery  subject ;  arter  actiwally 
seein'  and  bein'  in  the  company  o'  3'our  own  mother-in-law, 
vich  I  should  ha'  thought  was  a  moral  lesson  as  no  man 
could  ever  ha'  forgotten  to  his  dyin'  day !  I  didn't  think 
3'ou'd  ha'  done  it,  Samm}-,  I  didn't  think  you'd  ha'  done  it." 
These  reflections  were  too  much  for  the  good  old  man  ;  he 
raised  Sam's  tumbler  to  his  lips  and  drank  off  the  contents. 

"  Wot's  the  matter  now?  "  said  Sam. 

"  Nev'r  mind,  Sammy,"  replied  Mr.  Weller,  "it'll  be  a 
wery  agonizin'  trial  to  me  at  my  time  o'  life  ;  but  I'm  pretty 
tough,  that's  vun  consolation,  as  the  wer^'  old  turkey  re- 
marked ven  the  farmer  said  he  vos  afeerd  he  should  be 
obliged  to  kill  him  for  the  London  market." 

"  Wot'll  be  a  trial?"  inquired  Sam. 

"  To  see  you  married,  Sammy  ;  to  see  you  a  deluded  wic- 
tim,  and  thinkin'  in  your  innocence  that  it's  all  wery  capital," 
replied  Mr.  Weller.  "  It's  a  dreadful  trial  to  a  father's 
feeliu's,  that  'ere,  Sammy." 


SAM  weller's  valentine.  383 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Sam,  "I  ain't  a-goin' to  get  married; 
don't  you  fret  yourself  about  that.  I  know  you're  a  judge  o' 
these  things  ;  order-in  your  pipe,  and  I'll  read  you  the  letter, 
—  there  !  " 

Sam  dipped  his  pen  into  the  ink  to  be  ready  for  any  cor- 
rections, and  began  with  a  very  theatrical  air,  — 

'"Lovely  —  "' 

"Stop,"  said  Mr.  AYeller,  ringing  the  bell.  "A  double 
glass  o'  the  inwariable,  my  dear." 

"  Verj-  well,  sir,"  replied  the  girl,  who  with  great  quick- 
ness appeared,  vanished,  returned,  and  disappeared. 

"•  The}"  seem  to  know  your  ways  here,"  observed  Sam. 

"Yes,"  replied  his  father,  "  I've  been  here  before,  in  my 
time.     Go  on,  Sammj." 

"  '  Lovely  creetur','  "  repeated  Sam. 

"  'Taint  in  poetry,  is  it?  "  interposed  the  father. 

"  No,  no,"  replied  Sam. 

"  Wery  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Mr.  AVeller.  "Poetry's 
nnuat'ral.  No  man  ever  talked  in  poetry  'cept  a  beadle  on 
boxin'  day,  or  Warren's  blackin',  or  Rowland's  oil,  or  some 
o'  them  low  fellows.  Never  you  let  yourself  down  to  talk 
poetr}',  mj-  boy.     Begin  again,  Sammy." 

Mr.  Weller  resumed  his  pipe  with  critical  solemnity,  and 
Sam  once  more  commenced  and  read  as  follows  : 

"  '  Lovely  ci-eetur'  i  feel  myself  a  damned  — '  " 

"  That  ain't  proper,"  said  Mr.  Weller,  taking  his  pipe 
from  his  mouth. 

"  No;  it  ain't  damned,"  observed  Sam,  holding  the  letter 
up  to  the  light,  "  it's  '  shamed,'  there's  a  blot  there  ;  '  i  feel 
myself  ashamed.'  " 

"  Wery  good,"  said  Mr.  Weller.     "  Go  on." 

''  '  Feel  myself  ashamed,  and  completely  cir  —  '  I  forget 
wot  this  'ere  word  is,"  said  Sam,  scratching  his  head  with 
the  pen,  in  vain  attempts  to  remember. 

"  Why  don't  you  look  at  it,  then?  "  inquired  Mr.  Weller. 

"  So  I  am  a-lookin'  at  it,"  replied  Sam,  "  but  there's 
another  blot ;  here's  a  '  c,'  and  a  '  i,'  and  a  '  d.'  " 


884  CHOICE    READINGS. 

"  Circumwented,  p'rhaps,"  suggested  Mr.  Weller. 

"No,  it  ain't  that,"  said  Sam;  "  '  circumscribed,'  that's 
it." 

"  That  ain't  as  good  a  word  as  circumwented,  Sammy," 
said  Mr.  Weller,  gravely. 

"Think  not?"  said  Sam. 

"  Nothiu'  like  it,"  replied  his  father. 

"  But  don't  3'ou  think  it  means  more?  "  inquired  Sam. 

"  Veil,  p'rhaps  it's  a  more  tenderer  word,"  said  Mr. 
Weller,  after  a  few  moments'  reflection.     "  Go  on,  Sammy." 

"  '  Feel  myself  ashamed  and  complete I3'  circumscribed  in 
a-dressin'  of  you,  for  you  are  a  nice  gal,  and  nothin'  but  it.'  " 

"  That's  a  wery  prett}'  sentiment,"  said  the  elder  Mr. 
Weller,  removing  his  pipe  to  make  way  for  the  remark. 

"  Yes,  I  think  it's  rayther  good,"  observed  Sam,  highly 
flattered. 

"Wot  I  like  in  that 'ere  style  of  writin',"  said  the  elder 
Mr.  Weller,  "  is,  that  there  ain't  no  callin'  names  in  it,  —  no 
Wenuses,  nor  nothing  o'  that  kind  ;  wot's  the  good  o'  callin' 
a  30ung  'ooraan  a  Wenus  or  a  angel,  Sammy?" 

"Ah!  what  indeed?"  replied  Sam. 

"  You  might  just  as  veil  call  her  a  griffin,  or  a  unicorn,  or 
a  king's-arms  at  once,  which  is  wery  veil  known  to  be  a  col- 
lection o'  fabulous  animals,"  added  Mr.  Weller. 

"  Just  as  well,"  replied  Sam. 

"  Drive  on,  Sammy,"  said  Mr.  Weller. 

Sam  complied  with  the  request,  and  proceeded  as  follows, 
his  father  continuing  to  smoke  with  a  mixed  expression  of 
wisdom  and  complacency,  which  was  particular!}-  edifying : 

"  '  Afore  i  see  you  i  thought  all  women  was  alike.'  " 

"  So  the}'  are,"  observed  the  elder  Mr.  Weller,  parentheti- 
cally. 

"  '  But  now,'  "  continued  Sam,  "  '  now  i  find  what  a  reg- 
'lar  soft-headed,  ink-red'lous  turnip  i  must  ha'  been,  for 
there  ain't  nobody  like  you,  though  i  like  you  better  than 
nothin'  at  all.'  I  thought  it  best  to  make  that  rayther 
strong,"  said  Sam,  looking  up. 


SAM    WELLEU'S    VALENTINE.  385 

Mr.  Weller  uoddetl  api)rovingly,  and  Sam  resumed. 

"  '  So  i  take  the  privilidge  of  the  day,  Mary,  my  dear,  — 
as  the  gen'hii'n  in  difficulties  did,  ven  he  valked  out  of  a 
Sunday,  —  to  tell  you  that  the  first  and  only  time  i  see  you 
your  likeness  wos  took  on  my  hart  in  much  quicker  time  and 
brighter  colours  than  ever  a  likeness  was  taken  by  the  prof  eel 
macheen.  (which  p'rhaps  you  may  have  heerd  on  Mary  my 
dear,)  altho'  it  does  finish  a  portrait,  and  put  the  frame  and 
glass  on  complete  with  a  hook  at  the  end  to  hang  it  up  l)y, 
and  all  in  two  minutes  and  a  quarter.'  " 

"I  am  afeerd  that  werges  on  the  poetical,  Samm}',"  said 
Mr.  AYeller,  dubiously. 

"No  it  don't,"  replied  Sam,  reading  on  very  quickly  to 
avoid  contesting  the  point. 

"  '  Except  of  me  Mary  my  dear  as  your  walentine,  and 
think  over  what  I've  said.  My  dear  Mary,  I  will  now  con- 
clude.'    That's  all,"  said  Sam. 

"  That's  rayther  a  sudden  pull  up,  ain't  it,  Sammy?"  in- 
quired Mr.  Weller. 

"Not  a  bit  on  it."  said  Sam;  "she'll  vish  there  wos 
more,  and  that's  the  great  art  o'  letter  writin'." 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Weller,  "  there's  somethin'  in  that ;  and 
I  wish  your  mother-in-law  'ud  only  conduct  her  conwersation 
on  the  same  gen-teel  principle.  Ain't  you  a-goin'  to  sign 
it?" 

"That's  the  difficulty,"  said  Sam;  "I  don't  know  what 
to  sign  it." 

"Sign  it  —  Veller,"  said  the  oldest  surviving  proprietor 
of  that  name. 

"  Won't  do,"  said  Sam.  "  Never  sign  a  walentine  with 
your  own  name." 

"  Sign  it  Pickvick,  then,"  said  Mr.  Weller;  "it's  a  wery 
good  name,  and  a  cas}'  one  to  spell." 

"  The  wery  thing,"  said  Sam.  "  I  could  end  with  a  werse  ; 
what  do  yon  think?" 

"I  don't  like  it,  Sam,"  rejoined  Mr.  Weller.  "  I  never 
know'd  a  respectable  coachman  as  wrote  poetry,  'cept  one  as 


386.  CHOICE    READINGS. 

made  an  affectin'  copy  o'  werses  the  night  afore  he  wos  hung 
for  a  highway  robbery,  and  lie  wos  onlj'  a  Cambervell  man  ; 
so  even  that's  no  rule." 

But  Sam  was  not  to  be  dissuaded  from  the  poetical  idea 
that  had  occurred  to  him,  so  he  signed  the  letter,  — 
"Your  love-sick 
Pickwick." 

PYEAMUS   AND    THISBE. 

John  G.  Saxe. 

This  tragical  tale,  which,  they  say,  is  a  true  one, 

Is  old ;  but  the  manner  is  wholly  a  new  one. 

One  Ovid,  a  writer  of  some  reputation. 

Has  told  it  before  in  a  tedious  narration  ; 

In  a  style,  to  be  sure,  of  remarkable  fullness. 

But  which  nobody  reads  on  account  of  its  dullness. 

Young  Peter  Pyramus,  —  I  call  him  Peter, 

Not  for  the  sake  of  the  rhyme  nor  the  meti'e. 

But  merely  to  make  the  name  completer,  — 

For  Peter  lived  in  the  olden  times, 

And  in  one  of  the  worst  of  pagan  climes 

That  flourish  now  in  classical  lore, 

Long  before  either  noble  or  boor 

Had  such  a  thing  as  a  Christian  name,  — 

Young  Peter,  then,  was  a  nice  young  beau 

As  any  young  lad}'  would  wish  to  know ; 

In  years,  I  ween,  he  was  rather  green. 

That  is  to  say,  he  was  just  eighteen,  — 

A  trifle  too  short,  a  shaving  too  lean, 

But  "  a  nice  young  man  "  as  ever  was  seen, 

And  fit  to  dance  with  a  May-day  queen  ! 

Now  Peter  loved  a  l)eautiful  girl 

As  ever  ensnared  the  heart  of  an  earl 

In  the  magical  trap  of  an  auburn  curl,  — 


PYKAMUS    AND    THISBE  387 

A  little  Miss  Tliisbe,  who  lived  next  door, 

(They  lived,  in  fact,  on  the  very  same  floor, 

Witli  a  wall  between  them  and  nothing  more,  — 

Those  double  dwellings  were  common  of  3'ore,) 

And  the}'  loved  each  other,  the  legends  say, 

In  that  very  beautiful,  bountiful  way, 

That  ever}-  3'oung  maid  and  every  young  blade 

Are  wont  to  do  before  they  grow  staid, 

And  learn  to  love  by  the  laws  of  trade. 

But  (a-lack-a-day,  for  the  girl  and  boy  !) 

A  little  impediment  check'd  their  joy, 

And  gave  them  awhile  the  deepest  annoy,  — 

For  some  good  reason,  which  history  cloaks, 

The  match  didn't  happen  to  please  the  old  folks ! 

So  Thisbe's  father  and  Peter's  mother 

Began  the  young  couple  to  worry  and  bother. 

And  tried  their  innocent  passion  to  smother 

By  keeping  the  lovers  from  seeing  each  other ! 

But  who  ever  heard  of  a  marriage  deterr'd 

Or  even  deferr'd 

B}'  any  contrivance  so  very  absurd 

As  scolding  the  boy,  and  caging  the  bird? 

Now,  Peter,  who  was  not  discouraged  at  all 

By  obstacles  such  as  the  timid  appal. 

Contrived  to  discover  a  hole  in  the  wall, 

Which  wasn't  so  thick  but  removing  a  brick 

Made  a  passage,  —  though  rather  provokingly  small. 

Through  this  little  chink  the  lover  could  greet  her. 

And  secrecy  made  their  courting  the  sweeter. 

While  Peter  kiss'd  Thisbe,  and  Thisbe  kiss'd  Peter,  — 

For  kisses,  like  folks  with  diminutive  souls. 

Will  manage  to  creep  through  the  smallest  of  holes  ! 

'Twas  here  that  the  lovers,  intent  upon  love, 
Laid  a  nice  little  plot  to  meet  at  a  spot 
Near  a  mulberry-tree  in  a  neighbouring  grove  ; 
For  the  plan  was  all  laid  by  the  youth  and  the  maid, 


388  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Whose  hearts,  it  would  seem,  were  uncommonly  bold  ones, 

To  run  off  and  get  married  in  spite  of  the  old  ones. 

In  the  shadows  of  evening,  as  still  as  a  mouse 

The  beautiful  maiden  slipp'd  out  of  the  house, 

The  mulbeny-tree  impatient  to  find  ; 

While  Peter,  the  vigilant  matrons  to  blind, 

Stroll'd  leisurely  out  some  minutes  behind. 

While  waiting  alone  by  the  trystiug-tree, 

A  terrible  lion  as  e'er  30U  set  eye  on 

Came  roaring  along  quite  horrid  to  see, 

And  caused  the  3'oung  maiden  in  terror  to  flee  ; 

(A  lion's  a  creature  whose  regular  trade  is 

Blood,  —  and  "  and  a  terrible  thing  among  ladies,") 

And,  losing  her  veil  as  she  ran  from  the  wood, 

The  monster  bedabbled  it  over  with  blood. 

Now  Peter,  arriving,  and  seeing  the  veil 
All  cover'd  o'er  and  reeking  with  gore, 
Turn'd,  all  of  a  sudden,  exceedingly-  pale, 
And  sat  himself  down  to  weep  and  to  wail ; 
For,  soon  as  he  saw  the  garment,  poor  Peter 
Made  up  his  mind  in  ver\'  short  metre 
That  Thisbe  was  dead,  and  the  lion  had  eat  her ! 
So  breathing  a  prayer,  he  determined  to  share 
The  fate  of  his  darling,  "  the  loved  and  the  lost," 
And  fell  on  his  dagger,  and  gave  up  the  ghost ! 

Now  Thisbe  returning,  and  viewing  her  beau 

Lying  dead  b}-  her  veil,  (which  she  happen'd  to  know,) 

She  guess'd  in  a  moment  the  cause  of  his  erring ; 

And,  seizing  the  knife  that  had  taken  his  life. 

In  less  than  a  jiffy  was  dead  as  a  herring. 


Young  gentlemen  :  Pray  recollect,  if  you  please, 
Not  to  make  your  appointments  near  mulberry-trees. 
Should  your  mistress  be  missing,  it  shows  a  weak  head 


HOW  THE  OLD  HORSE  WON  THE  BET.         389 

To  be  stabbing  yourself,  till  you  kuow  she  is  dead. 
Young  ladies  :  You  shouldn't  go  strolling  about 
When  your  anxious  mammas  don't  know  3'ou  are  out; 
And  remember  thiit  accidents  often  befall 
From  kissing  young  fellows  through  holes  in  the  wall ! 


HOW  THE  OLD  HOUSE  WON  THE  BET. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 

'TwAS  on  the  famous  trotting-ground, 

The  betting  men  were  gather'd  round 

From  far  and  near;  the  "  cracks  "  were  there 

Whose  deeds  the  sporting  prints  declare : 

The  swift  g.  m.,  Old  Hiram's  nag, 

The  fleet  s.  h.,  Dan  PfeifTer's  brag, 

With  these  a  third,  —  and  who  is  he 

That  stands  beside  his  fast  b.  g.  ? 

Budd  Doble,  whose  catarrhal  name 

So  fills  the  nasal  trump  of  fame. 

There,  too,  stood  many  a  noted  steed 

Of  Messenger  and  Morgan  breed ; 

Green  horses  also,  not  a  few,  — 

Unknown  as  yet  what  they  could  do ; 

And  all  the  hacks  that  know  so  well 

The  scourgings  of  the  Sunda}'  swell. 

Blue  are  the  skies  of  opening  day  ; 
The  bordering  turf  is  green  with  May ; 
The  sunshine's  golden  gleam  is  thrown 
On  sorrel,  chestnut,  bay,  and  roan  ; 
The  horses  paw  and  prance  and  neigh ; 
Fillies  and  colts  like  kittens  play. 
And  dance  and  toss  their  rippled  manes 
Shining  and  soft  as  silken  skeins ; 
Wagons  and  gigs  are  ranged  about, 
And  fashion  flaunts  her  gay  turnout  s 


390  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Here  stands  —  eacli  youthful  Jehu's  dream—' 

The  jointed  tandem,  ticklish  team  ! 

And  there  in  ampler  breadth  expand 

The  splendours  of  the  four-in-hand ; 

On  faultless  ties  and  glossy  tiles 

The  lovely  bonnets  beam  their  smiles ; 

(The  style's  the  man,  so  books  avow ; 

The  style's  the  woman  an^iiow  ;) 

From  flounces  froth'd  with  creamy  lace 

Peeps  out  the  pug-dog's  smutty  face, 

Or  spaniel  rolls  his  liquid  eye, 

Or  stares  the  wiry  pet  of  Skye,  — 

0  woman,  in  your  hours  of  ease 
So  shy  with  us,  so  free  with  these  ! 

"  Come  on  !   I'll  bet  you  two  to  one 

I'll  make  him  do  it !  "     "  Will  you  ?     Done  ! '' 

What  was  it  he  was  bound  to  do? 

1  did  not  hear,  and  can't  tell  you ; 
Pray  listen  till  my  story's  through. 

Scarce  noticed,  back  behind  the  rest, 

By  cart  and  wagon  rudel}'  prest, 

The  parson's  lean  and  bony  bay, 

Stood  harness'd  in  his  one-horse  shay,  — 

Lent  to  his  sexton  for  the  day. 

(A  funeral,  —  so  the  sexton  said  ; 

His  mother's  uncle's  wife  was  dead.) 

Like  Lazarus  bid  to  Dives's  feast, 

So  look'd  the  poor  forlorn  old  beast ; 

His  coat  was  rough,  his  tail  was  bare, 

The  gTa}'  was  sprinkled  in  his  hair : 

Sportsmen  and  jockeys  knew  him  not. 

And  yet  they  say  he  once  could  trot 

Among  the  fleetest  of  the  town. 

Till  something  crack'd  and  broke  him  down, — 

The  steed's,  the  statesman's  common  lot! 


HOW  THE  OLD  HORSE  WON  THE  BET.         391 

"  And  are  we  then  so  soon  forgot?  " 
Ah  me  !  I  doubt  if  one  of  you 
Has  ever  heard  the  name  •'  Old  Blue," 
Whose  fame  through  all  this  region  rung 
In  those  old  dajs  when  I  was  young ! 

"  Bring  forth  the  horse  !  "  Alas  !  he  show'd 
Not  like  the  one  Mazeppa  rode  ; 
Scant-maned,  sharp-back'd  and  shaky-kneed. 
The  wreck  of  what  was  once  a  steed,  — 
Lips  thin,  eyes  hollow,  stiff  in  joints  ; 
Yet  not  without  his  knowing  points. 
The  sexton  laughing  in  his  sleeve, 
As  if  'twere  all  a  make-believe, 
Led  forth  the  horse,  and  as  he  laugh'd 
Unhitch'd  the  breeching  from  a  shaft, 
Unclasp'd  the  rusty  belt  beneath, 
Drew  forth  the  snaffle  from  his  teeth, 
Slipp'd  off  his  head-stall,  set  him  free 
From  strap  and  rein,  - —  a  sight  to  see  I 

So  worn,  so  lean  in  every  limb, 
It  can't  be  they  are  saddling  him  ! 
It  is  !     His  back  the  pig-skin  strides, 
And  flaps  his  lank  rheumatic  sides ; 
With  look  of  mingled  scorn  and  mirth 
They  buckle  round  the  saddle-girth ; 
With  horsey  wink  and  saucy  toss 
A  youngster  throws  his  leg  across. 
And  so,  his  rider  on  his  back. 
They  lead  him,  limping,  to  the  track, 
Far  up  behind  the  starting-point, 
Too  limber  out  each  stiffen'd  joint. 

As  through  the  jeering  crowd  he  pass'd, 
One  pitying  look  old  Hiram  cast ; 
"  Go  it,  ye  cripple,  while  ye  can  !  " 


392  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Cried  out  unsentimental  Dan  ; 

"  A  fast-clay  dinner  for  the  crows  ! '' 

Budd  Doble's  scoffing  shout  arose. 

Slowly,  as  when  the  walking-beam 

First  feels  the  gathering  head  of  steam, 

With  warning  cough  and  threatening  wheeze 

The  stiff  old  charger  crooks  his  knees ; 

At  first  with  cautious  step  sedate, 

As  if  he  dragg'd  a  coach  of  state  ; 

He's  not  a  colt ;  he  knows  full  well 

That  time  is  weiglit  and  sure  to  tell ; 

No  horse  so  sturd}-  but  he  fears 

The  handicap  of  twenty  years. 

As  through  the  throng  on  either  hand 
The  old  horse  nears  the  judges'  stand, 
Beneath  his  jockey's  feather-weight 
He  warms  a  little  to  his  gait. 
And  now  and  then  a  step  is  tried 
That  hints  of  sometliing  like  a  stride. 

"  Go  !  "  — Through  his  ear  the  summons  stung, 

As  if  a  battle-trump  had  rung ; 

The  slumbering  instincts  long  unstirr'd 

Start  at  the  old  familiar  word  ; 

It  thrills  like  flame  through  every  limb,  — 

What  mean  his  twenty  years  to  him? 

The  savage  blow  his  rider  dealt 

Fell  on  his  hollow  flanks  unfelt; 

The  spur  that  prick'd  his  staring  hide 

Unheeded  tore  his  bleeding  side  ; 

Alike  to  him  are  spur  and  rein, — 

He  steps  a  five-year-old  again  ! 

Before  a  quarter  pole  was  pass'd, 
Old  Hiram  said,  "  He's  going  fast." 


HOW   THE    OLD    HORSE    WON    THE    BET.  393 

Long  ere  the  quarter  was  a  half, 

The  chuckling  crowd  had  ceased  to  laugh ; 

Tighter  his  frighten 'd  jockey  clung 

As  in  a  mighty  stride  he  swung, 

The  gravel  flying  in  his  track, 

His  neck  stretch'd  out,  his  ears  laid  back, 

His  tail  extended  all  the  while 

Behind  him  like  a  rat-tail  file  ! 

Off  went  a  shoe,  —  awa}-  it  spun, 

Shot  like  a  bullet  from  a  gun  ; 

The  quaking  jockey  shapes  a  prayer 

From  scraps  of  oaths  he  used  to  swear ; 

He  drops  his  whip,  he  drops  his  rein, 

He  clutches  fiercel}'  for  a  mane  ; 

He'll  lose  his  hold,  —  he  sways  and  reels,  — 

He'll  slide  beneath  those  trampling  heels  ! 

The  knees  of  many  a  horseman  quake. 

The  flowers  on  man}'  a  bonnet  shake, 

And  shouts  arise  from  left  and  right, 

"  Stick  on  !  stick  on  !  "     "  Hould  tight !  hould  tight ! ' 

' '  Cling  round  his  neck  ;  and  don't  let  go,  — 

That  pace  can't  hold,  — there  !  steady !  whoa  !  " 

But,  like  the  sable  steed  that  bore 

The  spectral  lover  of  Lenore, 

His  nostrils  snorting  foam  and  fire, 

No  stretch  his  bony  limbs  can  tire  ; 

And  now  the  stand  he  rushes  by. 

And  "  Stop  him  !  stop  him  !  "  is  the  cry. 

"  Stand  back  !  he's  only  just  begun, — 

He's  having  out  three  heats  in  one  !  " 

"  Don't  rush  in  front !  he'll  smash  your  brains  ; 

But  follow  up  and  grab  the  reins  !  " 

Old  Hiram  spoke.     Dan  Pfeiffer  heard. 

And  sprang,  impatient,  at  the  word : 

Budd  Doble  started  on  his  bay. 

Old  Hiram  follow'd  on  his  gray. 

And  off"  they  spring,  and  round  thej'  go, 


394  CHOICE    READINGS. 

The  fast  ones  doing  ' '  all  they  know." 
Look  !  twice  they  follow  at  his  heels, 
As  round  the  circling  course  he  wheels, 
And  whirls  with  him  that  clinging  boy 
Like  Hector  round  the  walls  of  Troy. 
Still  on,  and  on,  the  third  time  round  ! 
They're  tailing  off !  thej^'re  losing  ground ! 
Budd  Doble's  nag  begins  to  fail ! 
Dan  Pfeiffei''s  sorrel  whisks  his  tail ! 
And  see  !  in  spite  of  whip  and  shout, 
Old  Hiram's  mare  is  giving  out ! 
Now  for  the  finish  !     At  the  turn, 
The  old  horse  —  all  the  rest  astern  — 
Comes  swinging  in,  with  easy  trot ; 
By  Jove  !  he's  distanced  all  the  lot ! 
That  trot  no  mortal  could  explain  ; 
Some  said,  "  Old  Dutchman  come  again !  " 
Some  took  his  time,  —  at  least,  they  tried, 
But  what  it  was  could  none  decide ; 
One  said  he  couldn't  understand 
What  happen'd  to  his  second-hand ; 
One  said  2:10;  that  couldn't  be,  — 
More  like  two  twenty-two  or  three ; 
Old  Hiram  settled  it  at  last : 
"  The  time  was  two,  —  too  mighty  fasti  " 

The  parson's  horse  had  won  the  bet ; 
It  cost  him  something  of  a  sweat ; 
Back  in  the  one-horse  shay  he  went. 
The  parson  wonder'd  what  it  meant. 
And  murmur'd,  with  a  mild  surprise 
And  pleasant  twinkle  of  the  eyes, 
"  That  funeral  must  have  been  a  trick, 
Or  corpses  drive  at  double  quick  ; 
I  shouldn't  wonder,  I  declare, 
If  Brother  Murray  made  the  prayer !  " 


tom's  little  star,  39o 

And  this  is  all  I  have  to  say 

About  the  parson's  poor  old  ba}', 

The  same  that  drew  the  one-horse  shay. 

Moral  for  which  this  tale  is  told  : 
A  horse  ccm  trot,  for  all  he's  old. 

TOM'S    LITTLE   STAR. 

Fanny  Foster. 

Sweet  Mary,  pledged  to  Tom,  was  fair 

And  graceful,  young  and  slim  : 
Tom  loved  her  truly,  and  one  dare 

Be  sworn  that  she  loved  him ; 
For,  twisting  bashfully  the  ring 

That  seal'd  the  happy  fiat, 
She  coo'd,  "  When  married  in  the  Spring, 

Dear  Tom,  let's  live  so  quiet ! 

Let's  have  our  pleasant  little  place, 

Our  books,  a  friend  or  two  ; 
No  noise,  no  crowd,  but  just  your  face 

For  me,  and  mine  for  you. 
Won't  that  be  nice  !  "     ^^t  is  my  own 

Idea,"  said  Tom,  "  so  chary, 
So  deep  and  true,  my  love  has  grown, 

I  worship  you,  my  Mary." 

She  was  a  tender,  nestling  thing, 

A  girl  that  loved  her  home, 
A  sort  of  dove  with  folded  wing, 

A  bird  not  made  to  roam. 
But  gently  rest  her  little  claw 

(The  simile  to  carry) 
Within  a  husband's  stronger  paw,  — 

The  very  girl  to  marry. 


396  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Their  courtship  was  a  summer  sea, 

So  smooth,  so  Itright,  so  calm, 
Till  one  day  Mary  restlessly 

Endured  Tom's  circling  arm. 
And  look'd  as  if  she  thought  or  plann'd, 

Her  satin  forehead  wrinkled, 
She  beat  a  tattoo  on  his  hand, 

Her  eyes  were  strange  and  twinkled. 

She  never  heard  Tom's  fond  remarks, 

His  "  sweety -tweety  dear," 
Or  noticed  once  the  little  larks 

He  play'd  to  make  her  hear. 
"What  ails,"  he  begg'd,  "my  petsy  pet? 

What  ails  my  love,  I  wonder?" 
"  Do  not  be  trifling,  Tom.     I've  met 

Professor  Shakespeare  Thunder." 

"  Thunder  !  "  said  Tom  ;  "  and  who  is  he?'' 

"  You  goose  !  why,  don't  you  know?  " 
"  I  don't.     She  never  frown'd  at  me, 

Or  call'd  me  goose.     And  though," 
Thought  Tom,  "  it  may  be  playfulness, 

It  racks  my  constitution." 
"  Why,  Thunder  teaches  with  success 

Dramatic  elocution." 

"  O  !     Ah  !     Indeed  !  and  what  is  that? 

My  notion  is  but  faint." 
"It's  art,"  said  Mary,  brisk  and  pat. 

Tom  thought  that  "  art"  meant  paint. 
"  You  blundering  boy  !  why,  art  is  just 

What  makes  one  stare  and  wonder. 
To  understand  Jiigh  art  you  must 

Hear  Shakespeare  read  by  Thunder." 

Tom  started  at  the  turn  of  phrase  ; 
It  sounded  like  a  swear. 


tom's  little  star.  397 

Then  Mary  said,  to  his  amaze, 

Witli  nasal  groan  and  glare, 
"  'To  be  or-r  —  not  to  be ? '  "     And  fain 

To  act  discreet  yet  gallant. 
He  ask'd,  "  Dear,  have  you  any  —  pain?  " 

"  O,  no,  Tom  ;  I  have  talent. 

Professor  Thunder  told  me  so  ; 

He  sees  it  in  my  eye  ; 
He  says  my  tones  and  gestures  show 

My  destiny  is  high." 
Said  Tom,  for  Mary's  health  afraid. 

His  ignorance  revealing, 
"  Is  talent,  dear,  that  noise  you  made?** 

"  Wh}-,  no  ;  that's  Hamlet's  feeling." 

"  He  must  have  felt  most  dreadful  bad." 

"  The  character  is  mystic," 
Mary  explain'd,  "  and  very  sad. 

And  very  high  artistic. 
And  you  are  not ;  you're  commonplace ; 

These  things  are  far  above  3'ou." 
"  I'm  only,"  spoke  Tom's  honest  face, 

"  Artist  enough  —  to  love  you." 

Frojn  that  time  forth  was  Mary  changed ; 

Her  eyes  stretch'd  open  wide  ; 
Her  smooth  fair  hair  infriz  arranged. 

And  parted  on  the  side. 
More  and  more  strange  she  grew,  and  quite 

Incapable  of  taking 
The  slightest  notice  how  each  night 

She  set  Tom's  poor  heart  aching. 

As  once  he  left  her  at  the  door, 

"  A  thousand  times  good-night," 
Sigh'd  Mary,  sweet  as  ne'er  before. 

Poor  Tom  revived,  look'd  bright. 


398  CHOICE    KEADINGS. 

"  Maiy,"  he  said,  "  you  love  me  so? 

We  have  not  grown  asunder?" 
"  Do  not  be  silly,  Tom  ;  you  know 

I'm  studying  with  Thunder. 

That's  from  the  famous  Juliet  scene. 

I'll  do  another  bit." 
Quoth  Tom,  "  I  don't  know  what  30U  mean." 
"  Then  listen  ;  this  is  it : 

'■  Dear  love,  adieu. 
Anon,  good  nurse.     Sweet  Montague,  l)e  true. 
Stay  but  a  little,  I  will  come  again.' 

Now,  Tom,  say  '  blessed,  blessed  niglit!  '  " 

Said  Tom,  with  hesitation, 
"  B-bless^d  night."     "  Pshaw  !  that's  not  right; 
You've  no  appreciation." 

At  Tom's  next  call  he  heard  up-stairs 

A  laugh  most  loud  and  coarse  ; 
Then  Mary,  knocking  down  the  chairs, 

Came  prancing  like  a  horse. 
"  '  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !      Well,  Governor,  how  are 
ye?     I've  been  down  five  times,  climbing  up 
your  stairs  in  m^'  long  clothes.' 

That's  comedy,"  she  said.     "You're  mad," 
Said  Tom. '   "'  Mad  I '     Ha  !  Ophelia !  . 
'  They  bore  him  barefaced  on  his  bier, 
And  on  his  grave  rain'd  many  a  tear,' " 
She  chanted,  ver}'  wild  and  sad  ; 
Then  whisk' d  off  on  Emilia : 
"  '  You  told  a  lie,  an  odious,  fearful  lie ; 
Upon  my  soul,  a  lie,  a  wicked  lie.'" 

She  glared  and  howl'd  two  murder-scenes, 

And  mouth'd  a  new  French  rdle, 
Where  luckily  the  graceful  miens 

Hid  the  disgraceful  soul. 
She  wept,  she  danced,  she  sang,  she  swore,  — 


tom's  little  star.  399 

From  Shakespeare,  —  classic  swearing  ; 
A  wild,  abstracted  look  she  wore, 
And  round  the  room  went  tearing. 

And  every  word  and  every  pause 

Made  Mary  "  quote  a  speech." 
If  Tom  was  sad,  (and  he  had  cause,) 

She'd  sa}',  in  sobbing  screech, 
"  '  Clifford,  why  don't  you  speak  to  me?' 

At  flowers  for  a  present 
She  leer'd,  and  sang  coquettislily, 
"  '  When  daises  pied  and  violets  blue.' " 

Tom  blurted,  "  That's  not  pleasant." 
But  ]\Iarv  took  offence  at  this  : 

"  You  have  no  soul,"  said  she, 
"  For  art,  and  do  not  know  the  bliss 

Of  notoriety. 
The  '  sacred  fire  '  they  talk  about 

Lights  all  the  \\a.y  before  me ; 
It's  quite  my  dut\'  to  '  come  out,' 

And  all  m}-  friends  implore  me. 

Three  months  of  Thunder  I  have  found 

A  thorough  course."  she  said  ; 
"  I'll  clear  Parnassus  with  a  bound." 

(Tom  softly  shook  his  head. ) 
"  I  cannot  fail  to  be  the  rage," 

(Tom  look'd  a  thousand  pities,) 
"  And  so  I'm  going  on  the  stage 

To  star  in  Western  cities." 

And  Mary  went ;  but  Mary  came 

To  grief  within  a  week  : 
And  in  a  month  she  came  to  Tom, 

Quite  gentle,  sweet,  and  meek. 
Tom  was  rejoiced  :  his  heart  was  none 

The  hardest  or  the  sternest. 
'^O.  Tom,"  she  sobb'd.  "  It  look'd  like  fun, 

But  art  is  dreadful  earnest. 


400  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Wh}^  art  means  work,  and  slave,  and  bear 

All  sorts  of  scandal  too  ; 
To  di'ead  the  critics  so  3'ou  dare 

Not  look  a  paper  through  ; 
O,  '  art  is  long.'  and  hard."     "  And  you 

Are  short  and  —  soft,  my  darling." 
"  My  money,  Tom,  is  gone,  —  \tjlew.'^ 

"  That's  natural  with  a  starling." 

' '  I  love  3'ou  more  than  words  can  say, 

Dear  Tom."     He  gave  a  start. 
"  Mary,  is  that  from  any  play?" 

"  No,  Tom  ;  it's  from  my  heart." 
He  took  the  tired,  sunny  head, 

With  all  its  spent  ambitions. 
So  gently  to  his  breast,  she  said 

No  word  but  sweet  permissions. 

"  Can  you  forgive  me,  Tom,  for  —  "     "  Life,' 

He  finisli'd  out  the  phrase. 
"  My  love,  you're  pattern'd  for  a  wife  • 

The  crowded  public  ways 
Are  liard  for  even  the  strongest  heart ; 

Yours  beats  too  softly  human  : 
However  woman  choose  her  art, 

Yet  art  must  choose  its  woman." 


TOO   LATE  POE   THE   TEAIN. 

When  they  reached  the  depot,  Mr.  Mann  and  his  wife 
gazed  in  unspeakable  disappointment  at  the  receding  train, 
which  was  just  pulling  away  from  the  bridge  switch  at  the 
r.ite  of  a  mile  a  minute.  Their  first  impulse  was  to  run  after 
it,  but  as  the  train  was  out  of  sight  and  whistling  for  Sage- 
town  before  they  could  act  upon  the  impulse,  the}'  remained 
in  the  carriage,  and  disconsolately  turned  their  horses'  heads 
homeward. 


TOO  LATE  FOR  THE  TRAIN.  401 

Mr.  Mann  broke  the  silence,  very  grimly  :  "It  all  comes 
of  having  to  wait  for  a  woman  to  get  ready." 

"  I  was  read}'  before  you  were,"  replied  his  wife. 

"  Great  Heavens,"  cried  Mr.  Mann,  with  great  impatience, 
nearly  jerking  the  horses*  jaws  out  of  place,  "just  listen  to 
that !  And  I  sat  in  the  buggy  ten  minutes  yelling  at  you  to 
come  along  until  the  whole  neighborhood  heard  me." 

"  Yes,"  acquiesced  Mrs.  Mann,  with  the  provoking  placid- 
ity which  no  one  can  assume  but  a  woman,  "  and  every  time 
I  started  down  stairs  you  sent  me  back  for  something  you 
had  forgotten." 

Mr.  Mann  groaned.  "  This  is  too  much  to  bear,"  he  said, 
"  when  everj'body  knows  that  if  I  were  going  to  Europe  I 
would  rush  into  the  house,  put  on  a  clean  shirt,  grab  up  my 
grip-sack,  and  fly,  while  30U  would  want  at  least  six  mouths 
for  preliminary  preparations,  and  then  dawdle  around  the 
whole  day  of  starting  until  every  train  had  left  town." 

Well,  the  upshot  of  the  matter  was  that  the  Manns  put  off 
their  visit  to  Aurora  until  the  next  week,  and  it  was  agreed 
that  each  one  should  get  himself  or  herself  ready  and  go 
down  to  the  train  and  go,  and  the  one  who  failed  to  get 
ready  should  be  left.  The  da}'  of  the  match  came  around  in 
due  time.  The  train  was  going  at  10.30,  and  Mr.  Mann, 
after  attending  to  his  business,  went  home  at  9.45. 

"Now,  then,"  he  sliouted,  "only  three-quarters  of  an 
hour's  time.  Fly  around  ;  a  fair  field  and  no  favours,  3'ou 
know." 

And  away  they  flew.  Mr.  Mann  bulged  into  this  room, 
and  flew  through  that  one,  and  dived  into  one  closet  after 
another  with  inconceivable  rapidity,  chuckling  under  his 
breath  all  the  time  to  think  how  cheap  Mrs.  Mann  would 
feel  when  he  started  off  alone.  He  stopped  on  his  way  up 
stairs  to  pull  oft'  his  heavy  boots  to  save  time.  For  the  same 
reason  he  pulled  oft"  his  coat  as  he  ran  through  the  dining 
room,  and  hung  it  on  a  corner  of  the  silver  closet.  Then  he 
jerked  off  his  vest  as  he  rushed  through  the  hall,  and  tossed 
it  on  the  hat-rack  hook,  and  by  the  time  he  had  reached  his 


402  CHOICE   READINGS. 

own  room  he  was  ready  to  plunge  into  his  clean  clothes.  He 
pulled  out  a  bureau  drawer  and  began  to  paw  at  the  things 
like  a  Scotch  terrier  after  a  rat. 

'•  Eleanor,"  he  shrieked,  "  where  are  m^-  shirts?" 

"  In  3'our  bureau  drawer,"  calmly  replied  Mrs.  Mann, 
who  was  standing  before  a  glass  calmlj'  and  deliberately 
coaxing  a  refractory  crimp  into  place. 

"Well,  but  they  ain't!"  shouted  Mr.  Mann,  a  little  an- 
noyed. "  I've  emptied  every  thing  out  of  the  drawer,  and 
there  isn't  a  thing  in  it  I  ever  saw  before." 

Mrs.  Mann  stepped  back  a  few  paces,  held  her  head  on 
one  side,  and,  after  satisfying  herself  that  the  crimp  would 
do,  replied,  "Those  things  scattered  around  on  the  floor  are 
all  mine.  Probably  you  haven't  been  looking  into  your 
own  drawer." 

"I  don't  see,"  testily  observed  Mr.  Mann,  "why  you 
couldn't  have  put  ni}'  things  out  for  me  when  you  had  noth- 
ing else  to  do  all  the  morning." 

"  Because,"  said  Mrs.  Mann,  setting  herself  into  an  addi- 
tional article  of  raiment  with  awful  deliberation,  "  nobody 
put  mine  out  for  me.     A  fair  field  and  no  favours,  my  dear." 

Mr.  Mann  plunged  into  his  shirt  like  a  bull  at  a  red  flag. 

"  Foul !  "  he  shouted  in  malicious  triumph  ;  "  No  buttons 
on  the  neck  !  " 

"■  Because,"  said  Mrs.  Mann,  sweetly,  after  a  deliberate 
stare  at  the  fidgeting,  impatient  man,  during  which  she  but- 
toned her  dress  and  put  eleven  pins  where  they  would  do  the 
most  good,  "  because  30U  have  got  the  shirt  on  wrong  side 
out." 

When  Mr.  Mann  slid  out  of  the  shirt  be  began  to  sweat. 
He  dropped  the  shirt  three  times  before  he  got  it  on,  and 
while  it  was  over  his  head  he  heard  the  clock  strike  ten. 
When  his  head  came  through  he  saw  Mrs.  Mann  coaxing  the 
ends  and  bows  of  her  necktie. 

"  Where  are  my  shirt  studs?"  he  cried. 

Mrs.  Mann  went  out  into  another  room,  and  presently 
came  back  with  gloves  and  hat,  and  saw  Mr.  Mann  emptying 


TOO  LATE  FOR  THE  TRAIN.  403 

all  the  boxes  he  could  fiud  iu  and  Jirouud  the  bureau.  Then 
she  said,  "  In  the  sWrt  you  just  pulled  off." 

Mrs.  Mann  put  on  her  gloves  while  Mr.  Mann  hunted  up 
and  down  the  room  for  his  cuff-buttons. 

"  Eleanor,"  he  snarled,  at  last,  '•  I  believe  30U  must  know 
where  those  cuff-buttous  are." 

"I  haven't  seen  them,"  said  the  lady,  settling  her  hat; 
"  didn't  you  la}'  them  down  on  the  window-sill  in  the  sitting- 
room  last  night?" 

Mr.  Mann  remembered,  and  he  went  down-stairs  on  the  run. 
He  stepped  on  one  of  his  boots,  and  was  immediately  landed 
in  the  hall  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  with  neatness  and  dis- 
patch, attended  in  the  transmission  with  more  bumps  than 
he  could  count  with  Webb's  Addei',  and  landed  with  a  bang 
like  the  Hell-Gate  explosion. 

"Are  you  nearly  ready,  Algernon?"  sweetly  asked  the 
wife  of  his  bosom,  leaning  over  the  banisters. 

The  unhappy  man  groaned.  "  Can't  you  throw  me  down 
the  other  boot?"    he  asked. 

Mrs.  Mann,  pityingly,  kicked  it  down  to  him. 

"  My  valise?"    he  inquired,  as  he  tugged  at  the  boot. 

"Up  in  your  dressing-room,"  she  answered. 

"Packed?" 

"  I  do  not  know  ;  unless  you  packed  it  yourself,  probably 
not,"  she  replied,  with  her  hand  on  the  door-knob;  "I  had 
barely  time  to  pack  my  own." 

She  was  passing  out  of  the  gate  when  the  door  opened, 
and  he  shouted,  "  "Where  in  the  name  of  goodness  did  you 
put  m}'  vest  ?     It  has  all  my  money  in  it !  " 

"  You  threw  it  on  the  hat  rack,"  she  called.  "  Good-bye, 
dear." 

Before  she  got  to  the  corner  of  the  street  she  was  hailed 
again  : 

"  Eleanor  !  Eleanor  !  Eleanor  Mann  !  Did  you  wear  off 
my  coat?" 

She  paused  and  turned,  after  signalling  the  street  car  to 
stop,  and  cried,  "  You  threw  it  in  the  silver-closet." 


404  CHOICE    READINGS. 

The  street  car  engulfed  her  graceful  form,  and  she  was  seen 
no  more.  But  the  neighbours  say  that  they  heard  Mr.  Mann 
charging  up  and  down  the  house,  rushing  out  of  the  front 
door  every  now  and  then,  shrieking  after  the  unconscious 
Mrs.  Mann,  to  know  where  his  hat  was,  and  where  she  put 
the  valise-key,  and  if  she  had  his  clean  socks  and  under- 
shirts, and  that  there  wasn't  a  linen  collar  in  the  house.  And, 
when  he  went  awa}'  at  last,  he  left  the  kitchen  door,  the  side 
door,  and  the  front  door,  all  the  down-stairs  windows,  and  the 
front  gate,  wide  open. 

The  loungers  around  the  depot  were  somewhat  amused, 
just  as  the  train  was  pulling  out  of  sight  down  in  the  3'ards, 
to  see  a  flushed,  enterprising  man,  with  his  hat  on  sideways, 
his  vest  unbuttoned  and  necktie  flying,  and  his  grip-sack 
flapping  open  and  shut  like  a  demented  shutter  on  a  March 
night,  and  a  door-key  in  his  hand,  dash  wildly  across  the 
platform  and  halt  in  the  middle  of  the  track,  glaring  in 
dejected,  impotent,  wrathful  mortification  at  the  departing 
train,  and  shaking  his  fist  at  a  pretty  woman  who  was  throw- 
ing kisses  at  him  from  the  rear  platform  of  the  last  car. 


EEFLEOTIONS  IN  THE  PILLOEY. 

Charles  Lamb. 

Scene,  —  Opposite  the  Royal  Exchange. 
Time,  —  Twelve  to  One,  Noon. 

Ketch,  my  good  fellow,  you  have  a  neat  hand.  Prithee 
adjust  this  new  collar  to  my  neck  gingerly.  I  am  not  used 
to  these  wooden  cravats.  There,  softly,  softly !  That 
seems  the  exact  point  between  ornament  and  strangulation. 
A  thought  looser  on  this  side.  Now  it  will  do.  And  have 
a  care,  in  turning  me,  that  I  present  my  aspect  due  verti- 
cally. I  now  face  the  orient.  In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  I 
shift  southward,  —  do  you  mind?  —  and  so  on  till  I  face  the 
east  again,  travelling  with  the  Sun.  No  half-points,  I  be- 
seech you,  —  N.  N.  by  W.,  or  any  such  elaborate  niceties. 


REFLECTIONS  IN  THE  PILLORY.  405 

They  become  the  shipman's  card,  but  not  this  mystery. 
Now  leave  me  a  little  to  mj*  own  reflections. 

Bless  us,  what  a  company  is  assembled  in  honour  of  me  ! 
How  grand  I  stand  here  !  I  never  felt  so  sensiblj-  before 
the  effect  of  solitude  in  a  crowd.  I  muse  in  solemn  silence 
upon  that  vast  miscellaneous  rabble  in  the  pit  there.  From 
my  private  box  I  contemplate,  with  mingled  pity  and  won- 
der, the  gaping  curiosity  of  those  underlings.  There  are  my 
Whitechapel  supporters.  Rosemary  Lane  has  emptied  her- 
self of  the  very  flower  of  her  citizens  to  grace  my  show. 
Duke's  Place  sits  desolate.  What  is  there  in  my  face,  that 
strangers  should  come  so  far  from  the  east  to  gaze  upon  it? 
\_Here  an  egg  narrowly  misses  him.'\  That  offering  was  well 
meant,  but  not  so  cleanly  executed.  By  the  tricklings,  it 
should  not  be  either  m3'rrh  or  frankincense.  Spare  your 
presents,  m}'-  friends  :  I  am  noways  mercenary.  I  desire  no 
missive  tokens  of  your  approbation.  I  am  past  those  valen- 
tines. Bestow  those  coffins  of  untimely-  chickens  upon 
mouths  that  water  for  them.  Comfort  your  addle  spouses 
with  them  at  homo,  and  stop  the  mouths  of  3'our  brawling 
brats  with  such  011a  Podridas :  they  have  need  of  them. 
\_A  brick  is  let  fly.']  Disease  not,  I  pray  you,  nor  dismantle 
3'our  rent  and  ragged  tenements,  to  furnish  me  with  architec- 
tural decorations,  which  I  can  excuse.  This  fragment  might 
have  stopped  a  flaw  against  snow  comes.  \_A  coal  flies.] 
Cinders  are  dear,  gentlemen.  This  nubbling  might  have 
helped  the  pot  boil,  when  your  dirty  cuttings  from  the  sham- 
bles at  three-ha'pence  a  pound  shall  stand  at  a  cold  simmer. 
Now,  south  about.  Ketch.  I  would  enjoy  Australian  popu- 
larity. 

AVhat,  my  friends  from  over  the  water  !  Old  benchers,  — 
flies  of  a  day  —  ephemeral  Romans,  —  welcome!  Doth  the 
sight  of  me  draw  souls  from  limbo?  Can  it  dispeople  purga- 
tory ?  —  Ha ! 

What  am  I,  or  what  was  my  father's  House,  that  I  should 
thus  be  set  up  a  spectacle  to  gentlemen  and  others  ?  Why 
are  all  faces,  like   Persians  at   the  sunrise,  bent  singly  on 


406  CHOICE    READINGS. 

mine  alone?  It  was  wont  to  be  esteemed  an  ordinary  vis- 
nomy,  a  quotidian  merely.  Doubtless  these  assembled 
myriads  discern  some  traits  of  nobleness,  gentility,  breeding, 
which  hitherto  have  escaped  the  common  observation,  — 
some  intimations,  as  it  were,  of  wisdom,  valour,  piety,  and 
so  forth.  My  sight  dazzles ;  and,  if  I  am  not  deceived  by 
the  too-familiar  pressure  of  this  strange  neckcloth  that  en- 
velops it,  my  countenance  gives  out  lambent  glories.  For 
some  painter  now  to  take  me  in  the  luck}'  point  of  expres- 
sion !  —  the  posture  so  convenient !  —  the  head  never  shift- 
ing, but  standing  quiescent  in  a  sort  of  natural  frame.  But 
these  artisans  require  a  westerlj'  aspect.     Ketch,  turn  me. 

Something  of  St.  James's  air  in  these  my  new  friends. 
How  my  prospects  shift  and  brighten  !  Now,  if  Sir  Thomas 
Lawrence  be  anywhere  in  that  group,  his  fortune  is  made  for 
ever.  I  think  I  see  some  one  taking  out  of  a  cra3on.  I 
will  compose  my  whole  face  to  a  smile,  which  3'et  shall  not 
so  predominate  but  that  gravit}-  and  gayet}'  shall  contend,  as 
it  were,  —  3'ou  understand  me?  I  will  work  up  my  thoughts 
to  some  mild  rapture,  —  a  gentle  enthusiasm,  —  which  the 
artist  may  transfer,  in  a  manner,  warm  to  the  canvas.  I 
will  inwardly  apostrophize  my  tabernacle. 

Delectable  mansion,  hail !  House  not  made  of  every 
wood  !  Lodging  that  pays  no  rent ;  airy  and  commodious  ; 
which,  owing  no  window  tax,  art  yet  all  casement,  out  of 
whicli  men  have  sucli  pleasure  in  peering  and  overlooking, 
that  they  will  sometimes  stand  an  hour  together  to  enjoy  thy 
prospects !  Cell,  recluse  from  the  vulgar !  Quiet  retire- 
ment from  the  great  Babe;],  yet  affording  sufficient  glimpses 
into  it !  Pulpit,  that  instructs  without  note  or  sermon-book  ; 
into  which  the  preacher  is  inducted  without  tenth  or  first- 
fruit!  Throne,  unshared  and  single,  that  disdainest  a  Brent- 
ford competitor !  Honour  without  corrival !  Or  hearest 
thou,  rather,  magnificent  theatre,  in  which  the  spectator 
comes  to  see  and  to  be  seen  ?  From  thy  giddy  heights  I 
look  down  upon  the  common  herd,  who  stand  with  eyes  up- 
turned, as  if  a  winged  messenger  hovered  over  them  ;  and 


REFLECTIONS    IN   THE   PILLORT.  407 

mouths  open  as  if  they  expected  manna.  I  feel,  I  feel,  the 
true  Episcopal  yearnings.  Behold  in  me,  my  flock,  your 
true  overseer!  What  though  I  cannot  lay  hands,  because 
my  own  ai-e  laid ;  yet  I  can  mutter  benedictions.  True 
otium  cum  dignitate !  Proud  Pisgah  eminence  !  pinnacle  sub- 
lime !  O  Pillory  !  'tis  thee  I  sing !  Thou  younger  brother 
to  the  gallows,  without  his  rough  aud  Esau  palms,  that  with 
ineffable  contempt  survej^est  beneath  thee  the  grovelling 
stocks,  which  claim  presiimptuouslj'  to  be  of  th}'  great  race  ! 
Let  that  low  wood  know  that  thou  art  far  higher  born.  Let 
that  domicile  for  groundling  rogues  and  base  earth-kissing 
varlets  env}'  thy  preferment,  not  seldom  fated  to  be  the 
wanton  baiting-house,  the  temporary  retreat,  of  poet  and  of 
patriot.  Shades  of  Bastwick  and  of  Prj'une  hover  over  thee, 
—  Defoe  Is  there,  and  more  greatly  daring  Shebbeare,  — 
from  their  (little  more  elevated)  stations  they  look  down 
with  recognitions.     Ketch,  turn  me. 

I  now  veer  to  the  north.  Open  your  widest  gates,  thou 
proud  Exchange  of  London,  that  I  may  look  in  as  proudly ! 
Gresham's  wonder,  hail !  1  stand  upon  a  level  with  all  your 
kings.  They  and  I,  from  equal  heights,  with  equal  super- 
ciliousness, o'erlook  the  plodding  mone3'-hunting  tribe  below, 
who,  busied  in  their  sordid  speculations,  scarce  elevate  their 
ej'es  to  notice  your  ancient,  or  my  recent,  grandeur.  The 
second  Charles  smiles  on  me  from  three  pedestals !  He 
closed  the  Exchequer :  I  cheated  the  Excise.  Equal  our 
darings,  equal  be  oar  lot. 

Are  those  the  quarters?  'tis  their  fatal  chhue.  That  the 
ever-winged  hours  would  but  stand  still !  but  I  must  de- 
scend, —  descend  from  this  dream  of  greatness.  Stay,  stay 
a  little  while,  importunate  hour-hand  !  A  moment  or  two, 
and  I  shall  walk  on  foot  with  the  undistinguished  many. 
The  clock  speaks  one.  I  return  to  common  life.  Ketch, 
let  nie  out. 


408  CHOICE   READINGS. 

ON  THE  DEATH   OF  A   MAD  DO(J. 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 

Good  people  all  of  eveiy  sort, 

Give  ear  uuto  my  soug  ; 
And,  if  you  find  it  wondrous  short, 

It  cannot  hold  you  long. 

In  Islington  there  was  a  man, 
Of  whom  the  world  might  say 

That  still  a  godly  race  he  ran, 
Whene'er  he  went  to  pray. 

A  kind  and  gentle  heart  he  had, 
To  comfort  friends  and  foes ; 

The  naked  every  day  he  clad  — 
When  he  put  on  his  clothes. 

And  in  that  town  a  dog  was  found, 

As  many  dogs  there  be, 
Both  mongrel,  pupp}',  whelp,  and  hound. 

And  curs  of  low  degree. 

This  dog  and  man  at  first  were  friends  ; 

But,  when  a  pique  began, 
The  dog,  to  gain  some  private  ends. 

Went  mad  and  bit  the  man. 

Around  from  all  the  neighbouring  streets 
The  wondering  neighboui-s  ran. 

And  swore  the  dog  liad  lost  his  wits, 
To  bite  so  good  a  man. 

The  wound  it  seem'd  both  sore  and  sad 

To  every  Christian  eye  ; 
And,  while  the}'  swore  the  dog  was  mad, 

They  swore  the  man  would  die. 


BETSY    AND    I    AKK    OUT.  409 

But  soou  a  wonder  came  to  light, 
That  showed  the  rogues  they  lied  ; 

The  man  recover'd  of  the  l)ite. 
The  dog  it  was  that  died. 

ooJStJOo 

BETSY  AND  I  ARE  OUT. 

Will  Carleton. 

Draw  up  the  papers,  lawyer,  and  make  'em  good  and  stout. 
For  things  at  home  are  cross-ways,  and  Betsy  and  I  are  out,  — 
We  wlio  ha^•e  work'd  together  so  long  as  man  and  wife 
]\Iust  pull  in  single  harness  the  rest  of  our  uat'i'al  life. 

•'  AVliat  is  the  matter,"  says  you?     T  swan  !  it's  hard  to  tell ! 
Most  of  the  years  behind  us  we've  pass'd  by  very  well : 
I  have  no  other  woman,  —  she  has  no  other  man  ; 
Only  we've  lived  together  as  long  as  ever  we  can. 

So  I  have  talk'd  with  Betsy,  and  Betsy  has  talk'd  with  me  ; 
And  we've  agreed  together  that  we  can  never  agree ; 
Not  that  we've  catch'd  each  other  in  any  terrible  crime ; 
We've  been  a  gatherin'  this  for  years,  a  little  at  a  time. 

There  was  a  stock  of  temper  we  botli  had,  for  a  start ; 
Although  we  ne'er  suspected  'twould  take  us  two  apart : 
I  had  my  various  failings,  bred  in  the  flesh  and  bone, 
And  Betsy,  like  all  good  women,  had  a  temper  of  her  own. 

The  first  thing,  I  remember,  whereon  we  disagreed, 
Was  somethin'  concerning  Heaven,  —  a  difference  in  our  creed  ; 
We  arg'ed  the  thing  at  breakfast,  —  we  arg'ed  the  thing  at  tea,  — 
And  the  more  we  arg'ed  the  question,  the  more  we  couldn't  agree. 

And  the  next  that  I  remember  was  when  we  lost  a  cow ; 

She  had  kick'd  the  bucket,  for  certain,  —  the  question  was  only  — 

How? 
I  held  my  opinion,  and  Betsy  another  had ; 
And  when  we  were  done  a-talkin',  we  both  of  us  was  nuid. 

And  the  next  that  I  remember,  it  started  in  a  joke; 
But  for  full  a  week  it  lasted,  and  neither  of  us  spoke : 
And  the  next  was  when  I  fretted  because  slie  broke  a  bowl ; 
And  she  said  I  was  mean  and  stingy,  and  hadn't  any  soul. 


410  CHOICE    READINGS. 

And  so  the  thing  kept  workin',  and  all  the  self-same  way; 
Always  somethin'  to  ar'ge,  and  something  sharp  to  say,  — 
And  down  on  us  came  the  neighbom's,  a  couple  o'  dozen  strong, 
And  lent  their  kindest  sarvice  to  help  the  thing  along. 

And  there  have  been  days  together —  and  many  a  weary  week  — 
When  both  of  us  were  cross  and  sj)unky,  and  both  too  proud  to 

speak ; 
And  I  have  been  thinkin'  and  thinkin',  the  whole  of  the  Summer 

and  Fall, 
If  I  can't  live  kind  with  a  woman,  why,  then  I  won't  at  all. 

And  so  I've  talk'd  with  Betsy,  and  Betsy  has  talk'd  with  me ; 
And  we  have  agreed  together  that  we  can  never  agree  ; 
And  what  is  hers  shall  be  hers,  and  what  is  mine  shall  be  mine; 
And  I'll  put  it  in  the  agreement  and  take  it  to  her  to  sign. 

Write  on  the  paper,  lawyer, — the  very  first  paragraph, — 
Of  all  the  farm  and  live  stock,  she  shall  have  her  half ; 
For  she  has  help'd  to  earn  it,  through  many  a  weary  day, 
And  it's  nothin'  more  than  justice  that  Betsy  has  her  pay. 

Give  her  the  house  and  homestead  ;  a  man  can  thrive  and  roam. 
But  women  are  wretched  critters,  unless  they  have  a  home. 
And  I  have  always  determined,  and  never  fail'd  to  say. 
That  Betsy  should  never  want  a  home,  if  I  was  taken  away. 

There's  a  little  hard  money  besides,  that's  drawin'  tol'rable  pay, 
A  couple  of  hundred  dollars  laid  by  for  a  rainy  day,  — 
Safe  in  the  hands  of  good  men,  and  easy  to  get  at; 
Put  in  another  clause  there,  and  give  her  all  of  that. 

I  see  that  you  are  smiling,  sir,  at  my  givin'  her  so  much  ; 
Yes,  divorce  is  cheap,  sir,  but  I  take  no  stock  in  such  : 
True  and  fair  T  married  her,  when  she  was  blithe  and  young, 
And  Betsy  was  always  good  to  me,  exceptin'  with  her  tongue. 

When  I  was  young  as  you,  sir,  and  not  so  smart,  perhaps, 
For  me  she  mitten'd  a  lawyer,  and  several  other  chaps ; 
And  all  of  'em  was  fluster'd,  and  fairly  taken  down. 
And  for  a  time  I  was  counted  the  luckiest  man  in  town. 


HOW    BETSY    AND    I    MADE    UP.  411 

Once,  when  I  had  a  fever,  —  I  won't  forget  it  soon.  — 

T  was  hot  as  a  basted  turkey  and  crazy  as  a  loon,  — 

Never  an  hour  went  by  nie  wlien  she  was  out  of  sight; 

She  nursed  me  true  and  tender,  and  stuck  to  me  day  and  night. 

And  if  ever  a  house  was  tidy,  and  ever  a  kitchen  clean, 
Her  house  and  kitchen  was  tidy  as  any  I  ever  seen ; 
And  I  don't  complain  of  Betsy  or  any  of  her  acts, 
ICxceptin'  when  we've  quarrell'd,  and  told  each  other  facts. 

So  draw  up  the  paper,  lawyer ;  and  I'll  go  home  to-night. 

And  read  the  agreement  to  her,  and  see  if  it's  all  right; 

And  then  in  the  mornin'  I'll  sell  to  a  tradin'  man  I  know; 

And  kiss  the  child  that  was  left  to  us,  and  out  in  the  world  I'll  go. 

And  one  thing  put  in  the  paper,  that  first  to  me  didn't  occur ; 
That  when  I  am  dead  at  last  she  will  bring  me  back  to  her, 
And  lay  me  under  the  maple  vve  planted  years  ago. 
When  she  and  I  was  happy,  before  we  quarrell'd  so. 

And,  when  she  dies,  I  wish  that  she  would  be  laid  by  me ; 
And,  lyin'  together  hi  silence,  perhaps  we'll  then  agi-ee ; 
And,  if  ever  we  meet  in  Heaven,  1  wouldn't  think  it  queer 
If  we  loved  each  other  the  better  because  we've  quarrell'd  here. 


HOW  BETSY  AND  I  MADE  UP. 

Will  Carletom. 

Give  me  your  hand,  Mr.  Lawyer ;  how  do  you  do  to-day  ? 
You  drew  up  that  agreement,  —  I  s'pose  you  want  your  pay  : 
Don't  cut  down  your  figures ;  make  it  an  X.  or  a  V. ; 
For  that  'ere  written  agreement  was  just  the  makin'  of  me. 

Goin'  home  that  evenm',  I  tell  you  I  was  blue, 

Thinkin'  of  aU  my  troubles,  and  what  I  was  goin'  to  do ; 

And,  if  my  bosses  hadn't  been  the  steadiest  team  alive. 

They'd  've  tipp'd  me  over,  certain,  for  I  couldn't  see  where  to  drive 

No,  —  for  I  was  laborin'  under  a  heavy  load ; 
No, — for  I  was  travelin'  an  entirely  different  road; 
For  I  was  a-tracin'  over  the  path  of  our  lives  ag'in. 
And  seein'  where  we  miss'd  the  way,  and  where  we  might  have 
been. 


412  CHOICE    READINGS. 

And  many  a  corner  we'd  turn'd  that  just  to  a  quarrel  led, 
When  T  ought  to've  held  my  temper,  and  driven  straight  ahead; 
And  the  more  I  thought  it  over  the  more  these  memories  came, 
And  the  more  I  struck  the  opinion  that  I  was  the  most  to  blame. 

And  things  I  had  long  forgotten  kept  risin'  in  my  mind. 

Of  little  matters  betwixt  us,  where  Betsy  was  good  and  kind ; 

And  these  things  they  flash'd  all  through  me,  as  you  know  things 

sometimes  will, 
When  a  feller's  alone  in  the  darkness,  and  every  thing  is  still. 

"  But,"  says  I,  "  we're  too  far  along  to  take  another  track, 
And  when  I  put  my  hand  to  the  plough  I  do  not  oft  turn  back ; 
And  'taint  an  uncommon  thing  now  for  couples  to  smash  in  two," 
And  so  I  set  my  teeth  together,  and  vow'd  I'd  see  it  through. 

When  I  came  in  sight  o'  the  house  'twas  some'at  in  the  night, 
And  just  as  I  tm-n'd  a  hill-top  I  see  the  kitchen  light ; 
'Wliich  often  a  han'some  pictur'  to  a  hungry  person  makes. 
But  it  don't  interest  a  feller  much  that's  goin'  to  pull  up  stakes. 

And  when  I  went  in  the  house  the  table  was  set  for  me,  — 

As  good  a  supper's  I  ever  saw,  or  ever  want  to  see ; 

And  I  crainm'd  the  agreement  down  in  my  pocket  as  well  as  I 

could. 
And  fell  to  eatin'  my  victuals,  which  somehow  didn't  taste  good. 

And  Betsy  she  pretended  to  look  about  the  house, 

But  she  watch'd  my  side  coat  pocket  like  a  cat  would  watch  a 

mouse ; 
And  then  she  went  to  foolin'  a  little  with  her  cup, 
And  intently  readm'  a  newspaper,  a-holdin'  it  wrong  side  up. 

And  when  I'd  done  my  supper  I  draw'd  the  agreement  out, 
An  give  it  to  her  without  a  word,  for  she  know'd  what  'twas  about, 
And  then  I  humm'd  a  little  tune,  but  now  and  then  a  note 
Was  bu'sted  by  some  animal  that  hopp'd  up  in  my  throat. 

Then  Betsy  she  got  her  specks  from  off  the  mantle-shelf, 
And  read  the  article  over  quite  softly  to  herself; 
Read  it  by  little  and  little,  for  her  eyes  is  gettin'  old. 
And  lawyers*  writin'  ain't  no  print,  especially  when  it's  cold. 


HOW    BETSY    AND    I    MADE    UP.  413 

And  after  she'd  read  a  little  she  give  my  arm  a  touch, 

And  kindly  said  she  was  afraid  I  was  'lowin'  her  too  much ; 

But  when  she  was  through  she  went  for  nie,  her  face  a-streamin' 

with  tears, 
And  kiss'd  me  for  the  fii\st  time  in  over  twenty  years. 

I  don't  know  what  you'll  think.  Sir,  —  I  didn't  come  to  inquire, — 
r>ut  I  pick'd  up  that  agreement  and  stuff'd  it  in  the  fire; 
And  I  told  her  we'd  bury  the  hatchet  alongside  of  the  cow  ; 
And  we  struck  an  agreement  never  to  have  another  row. 

And  I  told  her  in  the  future  I  would'nt  speak  cross  or  rash. 
If  half  the  crockery  in  the  hoiLse  was  broken  all  to  smash ; 
And  she  said  in  regard  to  Heaven,  we'd  try  and  learn  its  worth 
By  startin'  a  branch  establishment  and  runnui'  it  here  on  Earth. 

And  so  we  sat  Ortalkin'  three-quarters  of  the  night. 
And  open'd  our  hearts  to  each  other  until  they  both  grew  light; 
And  the  days  when  I  was  winnin'  her  away  from  so  many  men 
Was  nothin'  to  that  evenin'  T  courted  her  over  again. 

Xext  mornin'  an  ancient  iiirgin  took  pains  to  call  on  us, 
Her  lamp  all  trimm'd  and  a-burnin'  to  kindle  another  fuss; 
But,  when  she  went  to  prj'in'  and  openin'  of  old  sores, 
My  Betsy  rose  politely,  and  showed  her  out-of-doors. 

Since  then  I  don't  deny  but  there's  been  a  word  or  two ; 
But  we've  got  our  eyes  wide  open,  and  know  just  what  to  do: 
AYhen  one  speaks  cross  the  other  just  meets  it  with  a  laugh. 
And  the  first  one's  ready  to  give  up  considerable  more  than  half. 

Maybe  you'll  tliink  me  soft.  Sir,  a-talkin'  in  this  style, 
But  somehow  it  does  me  lots  of  good  to  tell  it  once  in  a  while; 
And  I  do  it  for  a  compliment,  —  'tis  so  that  you  can  see 
That  that  there  written  agreement  of  yours  was  just  the  makin'  of 
me. 

So  make  out  your  bill,  ]\Ir.  Lawyer ;  don't  stop  short  of  an  X. ; 
Make  it  more  if  you  want  to,  for  I  have  got  the  checks  : 
I'm  richer  than  a  National  Bank,  with  all  its  treasures  told, 
For  I've  got  a  wife  at  home  now  that's  worth  her  weight  in  gold. 


414  CHOICE   READINGS. 


X. 

DIALECTIC. 

COCKNEY. 
LOED  DUNDEEARY  PEOPOSING. 

F.  J.  Skill. 

Any  fellah  feelth  nervouth  when  he  kuowth  he'th  goiug  to 
make  an  ath  of  himthelf . 

That's  vewy  twue,  — I  —  I've  ofteu  thed  tho  before.  But 
the  fact  is,  evew}'  fellah  dothu't  make  an  ath  of  himthelf,  at 
least  not  quite  such  an  ath  as  I've  done  in  my  time.  I  — 
don't  mind  telling  you,  but  'pon  my  word  now,  —  I  —  I've 
made  an  awful  ath  of  mythelf  on  thome  occathions.  You 
don't  believe  it  now,  —  do  you ?  I  —  thought  30U  wouldn't ; 
but  I  have  now  —  tveally.  Particularly  with  wegard  to  women. 
To  tell  the  twuth,  that  is  my  weakueth,  —  I  s'pose  I'm  what 
they  call  a  ladies'  man.  The  pwetty  cweachaws  like  me,  — 
I  know  they  do,  —  though  they  pweteud  not  to  do  so.  It  — 
it's  the  way  with  some  fellahs.  Let  me  see,  —  where  was  I? 
O,  I  rekomember,  —  or  weckolect,  —  which  is  it?  Never 
mind  ;  I  was  saying  that  I  was  a  ladies'  man. 

I  wanted  to  tell  you  of  one  successful  advenchaw  I  had, 
—  at  least,  when  I  say  successful,  I  mean  it  would  have  been 
as  far  as  /was  concerned,  —  but,  of  course,  when  two  people 
are  engaged,  —  or  wather,  when  one  of  'em  wants  to  be  en- 
gaged, one  fellah  by  himthelf  can't  engage  that  he'll  engage 
affections  that  are  otherwise  engaged.  By  the  wa}',  what  a 
lot  of  'gages  that  was  in  one  thentence,  and  yet —  it  seems 
quite  fruitless.  Come,  that's  pwetty  smart,  that  is  —  for 
me. 


LORD    DUNDREARY    PROPOSING.  415 

Well,  as  I  was  sayiug,  —  I  mean,  as  I  meant  to  have  said, 
—  when  I  was  stopping  down  at  Woekingham,  with  the  Wid- 
leys,  last  Autumn,  there  was  a  mons'ous  jolly  girl  sta^-ing 
tliere  too.  I  don't  mean  two  girls,  you  know,  —  only  —  only 
one  girl —  But  stop  a  minute,  —  is  that  right?  How  could 
one  girl  be  stopping  there  tiuo?  What  doosid  queer  expres- 
sions there  are  in  the  English  language  !  Stopping  there 
too!  It's  vewy  odd.  I — I'll  swear  there  was  onl}-  one 
girl,  —  at  least,  the  one  that  /  mean  was  onW  one,  —  if  she'd 
been  two,  of  course,  I  should  have  known  it,  —  let  me  see 
now,  one  is  singular,  and  two  is  plural,  —  well,  you  know, 
she  ivas  a  singular  girl,  —  and  she  —  she  was  one  too  many 
for  me.  Ah,  I  see  now,  — that  accounts  for  it,  —  one  tico 
many  —  of  course  —  I  kneiu  there  was  a  two  somewhere. 
She  had  a  vewy  queer  name.  Miss  —  miss  —  Missmiss,  no 
not  Miss  Missmiss  —  I  always  miss  the  wrong  —  I  mean  the 
right  name,  —  Miss  Chaffingham,  —  that's  it,  —  Charlotte 
Chafliugliam. 

At  the  top  of  the  long  walk  at  Woekingham  there  is  a 
summer-house,  —  a  jolly  sort  of  place,  with  a  lot  of  ferns  and 
things  about,  and  behind  there  are  a  lot  of  shrubs  and  bushes 
and  pwickl^-  plants,  which  give  a  sort  of  rural  or  ivurwal  — 
which  is  it?  blest  if  I  know  —  look  to  the  place,  and  as  it 
was  \ev;\  warm,  I  tliought  if  I'm  ever  to  make  an  ath  of 
mythelf  b}^  pwoposing  to  this  girl,  —  I  won't  do  it  out  in  the 
eye  of  the  Sun,  —  it's  so  pwecious  hot.  So  I  pwoposed  we 
should  walk  in  and  sit  down,  and  so  we  did,  and  then  I 
began  : 

"  Miss  Chaffingham,  now,  don't  3'ou  think  it  doosid  cool?  " 

"  CooU  Lord  D.,  "  she  said  ;  "  wh\',  I  thought  you  were 
complaining  of  the  heat." 

" I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  said,  ''I  —  I  —  can't  speak  vewy 
fast,"  (the  fact  is,  that  a  beathly  wasp  was  buthhing  about 
me  at  the  moment,)  "  and  I  hadn't  quite  finished  my  then- 
tenee.  I  was  going  to  sa}',  don't  you  think  it  doosid  cool  of 
Wagsby  to  go  on  laughing  —  at  —  at  a  fellah  as  he  does  ?  " 

"•Well,  my  Lord,"  she  said,  "  I  think  so  too;  and  I  won- 


416  CHOICE    READINGS. 

der  you  stand  it.  You  —  you  have  your  remedy,  you 
know." 

"What  remedy?"  I  said.  "You — you  don't  mean  to 
say  I  ought  to  thvvash  him,  Miss  Charlotte?" 

Here  slie  —  slie  somehow  began  to  hiugh,  but  in  such  a 
peculiar  way  that  I  —  I  couldn't  think  what  she  meant. 

"A  vewy  good  idea,"  I  said.  "  I've  a  vewy  good  mind  to 
twy  it.  I  had  on  the  gloves  once  with  a  laj-  figure  in  a  paint- 
er's studio,  —  and  gave  it  an  awful  licking.  It's  twue,  it  —  it 
didn't  hit  back,  you  know;  I — I  did  all  —  all  the  hitting 
then.  And  pwaps  —  pwaps  Wagsby  would  hit  back.  But, 
if  —  if  he  did  any  thing  so  ungentlemanlike  as  that,  I  could 
always  —  alwa3-s  —  " 

"  Always  what,  my  Lord?  "  said  Lotty,  who  was  going  on 
laughing  in  a  most  hysterical  manner. 

"Wh}',  I  could  always  sa}'  it  was  a  mithtake,  and  —  and 
it  shouldn't  happen  again,  you  know." 

"  Admirable  policy,  upon  ni}^  word,"  she  thaid,  and  began 
tittering  again.  But  what  the  dooth  amused  her  so  /  never 
could  make  out.  Just  then  we  heard  a  sort  of  rustling  in 
the  leaves  behind,  and  I  confess  I  felt  wather  nervonth. 

"  It's  only  a  bird,"  Lotty  said  ;  and  then  we  began  talking 
of  that  little  wobbin-wedbreast,  and  what  a  wonderful  thing 
Nature  is,  —  and  how  doosid  pwett}'  it  was  to  see  her  laws 
obeyed.  And  I  said,  "O  Miss  Chaffingham !  "  I  said,  "If 
I  was  a  wobbin  —  " 

"Yes,  Dundreary,"  she  anthered,  —  vewy  soft  and  sweet. 
And  I  thought  to  mythelf,  — Now's  the  time  to  ask  her, — 
now's  the  time  to —  I  —  I  was  beginning  to  wuminate  again, 
but  she  bwought  me  to  my  thenses  by  saying,  — 

"  Yes?"  interwoggatively. 

"  If  I  was  a  wobbin,  Lotty,  —  and  —  and  you  were  a  wob- 
bin—  "  I  exclaimed,  —  with  a  full  voice  of  emothun. 

"Well,  my  Lord?" 

"Wouldn't  it  be  —  jolly  to  have  thpeckled  eggs  evewy 
morning  for  bweakfast?" 

That  wasn't  quite  what  I  was  going  to  say  ;  but  just  then 


THE    SWELL.  417 

there  was  another  rustling  behind  the  summer-house,  and  in 
wushed  that  bwute,  "NVagshy. 

•'What's  the  wow,  Dundreary?"  said  he,  grinning  in  a 
dweadfulh-  idiotic  sort  of  way.  ''  Come,  old  fellah,"  (I  —  I 
hate  a  man  who  calls  me  old  fellah,  —  it's  so  beathly  famil- 
iar) .  And  then  he  said  he  had  come  on  purpose  to  fetch  us 
back,  (confound  him  !)  as  they  had  just  awanged  to  start  on 
one  of  those  cold-meat  excursions,  —  no,  that's  not  the 
word,  I  know,  —  but  it  has  something  to  do  with  cold  meat, 
—  pic  —  pickles,  is  it?  —  no,  pickwick?  pic  —  1  have  it, — 
the}"  wanted  us  to  go  picklicking,  —  I  mean  picknicking  witli 
them. 

Here  w^as  a  dithappointmeut.  Just  as  I  thought  to  ha^-e  a 
nice  little  flirtathun  with  Lott}'  —  to  l)e  interwupted  in  this 
manner !  Was  ever  an}-  thing  so  pwovoking?  And  all  for  a 
picnic,  —  a  thort  of  earh'  dinner  without  chairs  or  tables, 
nnd  a  lot  of  flies  in  the  muthtard !     I  was  in  such  a  wage  ! 

Of  course  I  didn't  get  another  chance  to  say  all  I  wanted. 
I  had  lost  my  opportunity,  and,  I  fear,  made  an  ath  of  my- 
thelf. 

THE  SWELL. 

George  W.  Kvle. 

I  SAY !  I  wonder  why  fellahs  ever  wide  in  horse-cars  ? 
I've  been  twying  all  daj-  to  think  why  fellahs  ever  do  it, 
weally  !  I  know  some  fellahs  that  are  in  business,  down 
town,  you  know,  —  C.  B.  Jones,  cotton-dealer;  Smith 
Brothers,  woollen  goods  ;  Bwown  &  Company,  stock-bwokers 
and  that  sort  of  thing,  you  know,  —  who  say  they  do  it  every 
day.  If  I  was  to  do  it  every  day,  my  funeral  would  come 
off  in  about  a  week.  Ton  my  soul,  it  would.  I  wode  in  a 
horse-car  one  day.  Did  it  for  a  lark.  Made  a  bet  I  would 
wide  in  a  horse-car,  'pon  my  soul,  I  did.  So  I  went  out  on 
the  pavement  before  the  club-house  and  called  one.  I  said. 
"Horse-ear!  horse-car!"  but  not  one  of  'em  stop[>c'(l, 
weally  !     Then  I  saw  that  fellahs  wun  after  them,  —  pla3'ed 


418  CHOICE    READINGS. 

tag  with  them,  you  know,  as  the  clweadful  little  girls  do 
when  school  is  coming  out.  And  sometimes  the}'  caught  the 
cars,  —  ah  —  and  sometimes  they  did  not.  So  I  wun  after 
one,  I  did  weally,  and  I  caught  it.  I  was  out  of  breath, 
3'ou  know,  and  a  fellah  on  the  platform—  a  conductor  fellah 
—  poked  me  in  the  back  and  said,  "  Come  !  move  up  !  make 
room  for  this  lady  !  "  Ah  —  by  Jove  he  did,  you  know  !  I 
looked  for  the  lad}'  so,  but  I  could  see  no  lad}',  and  I  said 
so.  There  was  a  female  person  behind  me,  with  large  mar- 
ket basket,  cwowded  with,  ah,  —  vegetables  and  such  dwead- 
ful  stuff,  and  another  person  with  a  bundle,  and  another  with 
a  baby,  you  know.  The  person  with  the  basket  prodded  me 
in  the  back  with  it,  and  I  said  to  the  conductor  fellah,  said 
I,  "Where  shall  I  sit  down?  I  —  ah  —  I  don't  see  any 
seat,  you  know."  "The  seats  seem  to  be  occupied  by  per- 
sons, conductor,"  said  I.     "  Where  shall  I  sit?" 

He  was  wude,  very  wude,  indeed,  and  he  said,  "You  can 
sit  on  your  thumb  if  you  have  a  mind  to."  And  when  I 
wemonstrated  with  him  upon  the  impwopwiet}'  of  telling  a 
gentleman  to  sit  on  his  thumb,  he  told  me  to  go  to  thunder. 
"  Go  to  thunder !  "  he  did,  indeed.  After  a  while  one  of  the 
persons  got  out,  and  I  sat  down  ;  it  was  vewy  disagweeable  ! 
Opposite  me,  there  were  several  persons  belonging  to  the 
labowing  classes,  with  what  I  pwesume  to  be  lime  on  their 
boots ;  and  tin  kettles  which  they  carried  for  some  myste- 
rious purpose  in  their  hands.  There  was  a  person  with  a 
large  basket,  and  a  coloured  person.  Next  to  me  there  sat  a 
fellah  that  had  been  eating  onions  !  'Twas  vewy  offensive  ! 
I  couldn't  stand  it !  No  fellah  could,  you  know.  I  had 
heard  that  if  any  one  in  a  car  was  annoyed  b}'  a  fellah-pas- 
senger he  should  weport  it  to  the  conductor.  So  I  said, 
"Conductor  !  put  this  person  out  of  the  oar!  he  annoys  me 
vewy  much.  He  has  been  eating  onions."  But  the  con- 
ductor fellali  only  laugiied.  He  did,  indeed  !  And  the  fel- 
lah that  had  bc^en  eating  onions  said,  "  Hang  yer  inii)iden(!e, 
what  do  ye  mean  by  tliat?"  "  It's  extwemely  disagweeable, 
you  know,  to  sit  near  one  who  has  been  eating  onions,"  said 


THE    SWELL.  419 

I.  "I  think  you  ought  to  resign,  get  out,  you  know." 
And  then,  though  I'm  sure  I  spoke  in  the  most  wespectful 
manner,  he  put  liis  fist  under  my  nose  and  wemarked, 
"You'll  eat  that,  hang  you,  in  a  minute!"  he  did,  indeed. 
And  a  fellah  opposite  said,  "  Put  a  head  on  him,  Jim  !  "  1 
suppose  from  his  tone  that  it  was  some  colloquial  expwession 
of  the  lower  orders,  referring  to  a  personal  attack.  It  was 
vewy  disagweeable,  indeed.  I  don't  see  why  any  fellah  ever 
wides  in  the  horse-cars.  But  I  didn't  want  a  wow,  you 
know.  A  fellah  is  apt  to  get  a  black  eye,  and  a  black  eye 
spoils  one's  appeawance,  don't  you  think?  So  I  said,  "  Beg 
pardon,  I'm  sure."  The  fellah  said,  "  O,  hang  you!"  he 
did,  indeed.  He  was  a  vewy  ill-brod  person.  And  all  this 
time  the  car  kept  stopping,  and  more  persons  of  the  lower 
orders  kept  getting  on.  A  vewy  dweadful  woman  with  a 
vewy  dweadful  baby  stood  right  before  me,  intercepting  m}' 
view  of  the  street ;  and  the  baby  had  an  orange  in  one  hand 
and  some  candy  in  the  other.  And  1  was  wondering  why 
persons  of  the  lower  classes  were  allowed  to  have  such  dirty 
babies,  and  why  Bergh  or  some  one  didn't  hiterfere,  you 
know,  when,  before  I  knew  what  she  was  doing,  that  dwead- 
ful woman  sat  that  dweadful  baby  wight  down  on  my  lap  ! 
She  did,  indeed.  And  it  took  hold  of  my  shirt  bosom  with 
one  of  its  sticky  hands,  and  took  m}-  eye-glass  away  with  the 
other,  and,  upon  my  honour,  I'm  quite  lost  without  my  eye- 
glass. "You'll  have  to  kape  him  till  I  find  me  money," 
said  the  woman.  "Weally!"  said  I,  "I'm  not  a  nursery- 
maid, ma'am."  Then  the  people  about  me  laughed,  they 
did,  indeed.  I  could  not  endure  it.  I  jumped  up  and 
dvvopped  the  baby  in  the  straw.  "  Stop  the  car,  conductor," 
said  I,  "  stop  the  car."  What  do  suppose  he  said?  "Hurry 
up  now,  be  lively,  be  lively,  don't  keep  me  waiting  all  day  ! " 
And  I  was  about  to  wemonstrate  witli  liim  upon  the  impwo- 
pwiety  of  speaking  so  to  a  gentleman,  when  he  pushed  me 
off  the  car.  That  was  the  only  time  I  ever  wode  in  a  horse- 
car.  I  wonder  why  fellahs  ever  do  wide  in  horse-cars  ?  I 
should  think  they  would  pwefer  cabs,  jou  know. 


420  CHOICE    READINGS. 

FRENCH. 

THE  FRENCHMAN   AND  THE   FLEA-POWDEE. 

A  Frenchman  once  —  so  runs  a  certain  ditty  — 

Had  cross'd  tlie  Straits  to  famous  London  city, 

To  get  a  living  by  the  arts  of  France, 

And  teach  his  neighbour,  rough  John  Bull,  to  dance. 

But,  lacking  pupils,  vain  was  all  his  skill ; 

His  fortunes  sank  from  low  to  lower  still ; 

Until,  at  last,  —  pathetic  to  relate,  — 

Poor  Monsieur  landed  at  starvation's  gate. 

Standing,  one  day,  beside  a  cook-shop  door, 

And,  gazing  in,  with  aggravation  sore. 

He  mused  within  himself  what  he  should  do 

To  fill  his  empty  maw,  and  pocket  too. 

By  nature  shrewd,  he  soon  contrived  a  plan, 

And  thus  to  execute  it  straight  began  : 

A  piece  of  common  brick  he  quickly  found, 

And  with  a  harder  stone  to  powder  ground. 

Then  wrapp'd  the  dust  in  many  a  daint}'  piece 

Of  paper,  labell'd  '•'■  Poison  for  de  Fleas," 

And  sallied  forth,  his  roguish  trick  to  ti'y, 

To  show  his  treasures,  and  to  see  who'd  buy. 

From  street  to  street  he  cried,  with  lusty  yell, 

"  Here's  grand  and  ^o\Qve\g\\  flea  poudare  to  sell !  " 

And  fickle  Fortune  seem'd  to  smile  at  last. 

For  soon  a  woman  hailed  him  as  he  pass'd, 

Struck  a  quick  bargain  with  him  for  the  lot. 

And  made  him  five  crowns  richer  on  the  spot. 

Our  wight,  encouraged  by  this  ready  sale, 

"Went  into  business  on  a  larger  scale  ; 

And  soon,  throughout  all  London,  scatter'd  he 

The  "  only  genuine  poudare  for  de  flea." 

Engaged,  one  morning,  in  his  new  vocation 

Of  mingled  boasting  and  dissimulation, 

He  thought  he  heard  himself  in  anger  call'd  j 


A    FRENCHMAN    ON    MACBETH.  421 

And,  sure  enough,  the  self-same  womau  bawl'd,  — 

In  not  a  mild  or  very  tender  mood,  — 

From  the  same  window  where  before  she  stood. 

''  Hey,  there,"  said  she,  "  You  Monsher  Powder-man  ! 

Escape  my  clutches  now,  sir,  if  you  can  ; 

I'll  let  you  dirty,  thieving  Frenchmen  know 

That  decent  people  won't  be  cheated  so." 

Then  spoke  Monsieur,  and  heaved  a  saintl}-  sigh, 

With  humble  attitude  and  tearful  eye  ;  — 

"  Ah,  Madame  !  s'il  vous  plait,  attendez  vous,  — 

I  vill  dis  leetle  ting  explain  to  you  : 

My  poudare  gi'an  !  magnifique  !  why  abuse  him  ? 

Aha  !  I  show  you  how  to  use  him  : 

First,  3'ou  must  wait  until  30U  catch  de  flea; 

Den,  tickle  he  on  de  petite  rib,  30U  see ; 

And,  when  he  laugh,  — aha  !  he  ope  his  troat ; 

Den  poke  de  poudare  down !  —  Begar  !  he  choke. 


A  FEENOHMAN  ON   MACBETH. 

An  enthusiastic  French  student  of  Shakespeare  thus  com- 
ments on  the  traged}'  of  Macbeth  : 

"Ah!  your  Mossieu'  Shak-es-pier !  He  is  gi'-aa-nd  — 
m3'sterieuse  —  so-blime  !  You  'ave  reads  ze  Macabess?  — 
ze  scene  of  ze  Mossieu'  Macabess  vis  ze  Vitch, — eh?  Su- 
perb sooblimitee  !  Wen  he  say  to  ze  Vitch,  '  Ar-r-roynt  ze, 
Yitch  ! '  she  go  awa}' :  but  what  she  say  when  she  go  away  ? 
She  say  she  will  do  s'omesing  dat  aves  got  no  naiime  !  '  Ah, 
ha  ! '  she  say,  '  I  go,  like  ze  r-r-aii-t  vizout  ze  tail,  but  I'll  do  ! 
I'll  do !  I'lf  DO  ! '  mi't  she  do?  Ah,  ha  !  —  voila  le  graand 
mjsterieuse  Mossieu'  Shak-es-pier !  She  not  say  what  she 
do !  " 

This  ivas  "  grand,"  to  be  sure  :  but  the  prowess  of  Mac- 
beth, in  his  "  bout"  with  Macduff,  awakens  all  the  mercurial 
Frenchman's  martial  ardour ; 

"  Mossieu'  Macabess,  he  see  him  come,  clos'  by  ;  he  say 


422  CHOICE    READINGS. 

(proud  empressement)  ^  '  Come  o-o-n,  Mossieu'  MacdufFs,  and 
d  —  d  be  he  who  first  say  Enoffs!'  Zeu  zey  fi-i-ght  — 
moche.  Ah,  ha  !  —  voila  !  Mossieu'  Macabess,  vis  his 
br-r-ight  r-r-apier  '  pink '  him,  vat  you  call,  in  his  body. 
He  'ave  gots  mal  d'estomac :  he  say,  vis  grand  simplicite, 
'  EnoffsF  What  for  he  say  '  Enoffs?'  'Cause  he  got  enoffs 
—  plaJiinty  ;  and  he  expire.,  r-r-ight  away,  'raediatel}-,  pretty 
quick  !  Ah,  mes  amis,  Mossieu'  Shak-es-pier  is  rising  man 
in  La  Belle  France  ! " 

MONSIEUR   TONSON. 

There  lived,  as  Fame  reports,  in  days  of  yore, 
At  least  some  fifty  years  ago  or  more, 

A  pleasant  wight  in  town,  yclept  Tom  King, — 
A  fellow  that  was  clever  at  a  joke. 
Expert  in  all  the  arts  to  tease  and  smoke  ; 

In  short,  for  strokes  of  humour  quite  the  thing. 

To  many  a  jovial  club  this  King  was  known, 
AVith  whom  his  active  wit  unrivall'd  shone  : 

Choice  spirit,  grave  free-mason,  buck  and  blood, 
Would  crowd,  his  stories  and  hon-mots  to  hear ; 
And  none  a  disappointment  e'er  could  fear. 

His  humour  flow'd  in  such  a  copious  flood. 

To  him  a  frolic  was  a  high  delight ; 

A  frolic  he  would  hunt  for,  day  and  night. 

Careless  how  prudence  on  the  sport  might  frown : 
If  e'er  a  pleasant  mischief  sprang  to  view, 
At  once  o'er  hedge  and  ditch  away  he  flew, 

Nor  left  the  game  till  he  had  run  it  down. 

One  night,  our  hero,  raml)ling  with  a  friend, 

Near  famed  St.  Giles's  chanced  his  course  to  bend, 

Just  by  that  spot,  the  Seven  Dials  hight. 
'Twas  silence  all  around,  and  clear  tlie  coast. 


MONSIEUR   TONSON.  423 

The  watch,  as  usual,  dozing  on  his  post, 

And  scarce  a  lamp  display'd  a  twinkling  light. 

Around  this  place  there  lived  the  numerous  clans 
Of  honest,  plodding,  foreign  artisans, 

Known  at  that  time  by  name  of  refugees. 
The  rod  of  persecution  from  their  home 
Compell'd  the  inoffensive  i-ace  to  roam. 

And  here  they  lighted,  like  a  swarm  of  bees. 

Well !  our  two  friends  were  sauntering  through  the  street, 
In  hopes  some  food  for  humour  soon  to  meet, 

When,  in  a  window  near,  a  light  they  view ; 
And,  though  a  dim  and  melancholy  ray, 
It  seem'd  the  prologue  to  some  merry  play. 

So  towards  the  gloomy  dome  our  hero  drew. 

Straight  at  the  door  he  gave  a  thundering  knock, 
(The  time  we  may  suppose  near  two  o'clock.) 

"I'll  ask,"  says  King,  '*  if  Thompson  lodges  here." 
"  Thompson, "  cries  t'other,  "  who  the  devil's  he?" 
"  I  know  not,"  King  replies,  "  but  want  to  see 

What  kind  of  animal  will  now  appear." 

After  some  time  a  little  Frenchman  came  ; 

One  hand  display'd  a  rushlight's  trembling  flame, 

The  other  held  a  thing  they  call'd  culotte  ; 
An  old  striped  woollen  nightcap  graced  his  head, 
A  tatter'd  waistcoat  o'er  one  shoulder  spread  ; 

Scarce  half  awake,  he  heaved  a  yawning  note. 

Though  thus  untimely  roused  he  courteous  smiled, 
And  soon  address'd  our  wag  in  accents  mild, 

Bending  his  head  politely  to  his  knee,  — 
"  Pray,  sare,  vat  vant  you,  dat  you  come  so  late? 
I  beg  your  pardon,  sare,  to  make  ^-ou  vait ; 

Pra}'  tell  me,  sare,  vat  your  commands  vid  me?" 


424  CHOICE    READINGS. 

"  Sir,"  replied  King,  "  I  merely  thought  to  know, 
As  by  your  house  I  chanced  to-night  to  go, 

(But,  really,  I  disturb'd  your  sleep,  I  fear.) 
I  say,  I  thought  that  you  perhaps  could  tell. 
Among  the  folks  who  in  this  quarter  dwell, 

If  there's  a  Mr.  Thompson  lodges  here?" 

The  shivering  Frenchman,  though  not  pleased  to  find 
The  business  of  this  unimportant  kind, 

Too  simple  to  suspect  'twas  meant  in  jeer, 
Shrugg'd  out  a  sigh  that  thus  his  rest  was  broke, 
Then,  with  unalter'd  courtesy,  he  spoke  ; 

"  No,  sare,  no  Monsieur  Tonson  lodges  here." 

Our  wag  begg'd  pardon,  and  toward  home  he  sped, 
While  the  poor  Frenchman  crawl'd  again  to  bed. 

But  King  resolved  not  thus  to  drop  the  jest ; 
So,  the  next  night,  with  more  of  whim  than  grace. 
Again  he  made  a  visit  to  the  place. 

To  break  once  more  the  poor  old  Frenchman's  rest 

He  knock' d,  —  but  waited  longer  than  before  ; 
No  footstep  seem'd  approaching  to  the  door ; 

Our  Frenchman  lay  in  such  a  sleep  profound. 
King  with  the  knocker  thunder'd  then  again. 
Firm  on  his  post  determined  to  remain  ; 

And  oft,  indeed,  he  made  the  door  resound. 

At  last  King  hears  him  o'er  the  passage  creep. 
Wondering  what  fiend  again  disturb'd  his  sleep : 

The  wag  salutes  him  with  a  civil  leer ; 
Thus  drawling  out  to  heighten  the  surprise, 
While  the  poor  Frenchman  rubbed  his  heavy  eyes, 

"  Is  there  —  a  Mr.  Thompson  —  lodges  here  ?  " 

The  Frenchman  falter'd,  with  a  kind  of  fright,  — 
'•  Vy,  sare,  I'm  sure  I  told  you,  sare,  last  night, 


MONSIEUR   TONSON.  425 

(Aud  here  he  labour'd,  with  a  sigh  sincere,) 
No  Monsieur  Tonson  in  the  vtirld  I  know, 
No  Monsieur  Tonson  here,  —  I  told  you  so ; 

Indeed,  sare,  dare  no  Monsieur  Tonson  here  !  " 

Some  more  excuses  tender'd,  off  Kuig  goes, 
Aud  the  old  P'reuchman  sought  once  more  repose. 

The  rogue  next  night  pursued  his  old  career. 
'Twas  long  indeed  before  the  man  came  nigh. 
And  then  he  utter'd  in  a  piteous  cry, 

"  Sare,  'pon  my  soul,  no  Monsieur  Tonson  here  ! '' 

Our  sportive  wight  his  usual  visit  paid, 

And  the  next  night  came  forth  a  prattling  maid. 

Whose  tongue,  indeed,  than  an}-  Jack  went  faster 
Anxious,  she  strove  his  errand  to  inquire, 
He  said  'twas  vain  her  pretty  tongue  to  tire, 

He  should  not  stir  till  he  had  seen  her  master. 

The  damsel  then  began,  in  doleful  state, 
The  Frenchman's  broken  slumbers  to  relate, 

And  begg'd  he'd  call  at  proper  time  of  da}'. 
King  told  her  she  must  fetch  her  master  down, 
A  chaise  was  ready,  he  was  leaving  town. 

But  first  had  much  of  deep  concern  to  say. 

Thus  urged,  she  went  the  snoring  man  to  call, 
And  long,  indeed,  was  she  obliged  to  bawl. 

Ere  she  could  rouse  the  torpid  lump  of  clay. 
At  last  he  wakes  ;  he  rises  ;  and  he  swears  : 
But  scarcely  had  he  totter'd  down  the  stairs, 

"When  King  attack'd  him  in  his  usual  wa}'. 

The  Frenchman  now  perceived  'twas  all  in  vain 
To  his  tormentor  mildly  to  complain. 

And  straight  in  rage  began  his  crest  to  rear  ; 
'■'•  Sare,  vat  the  devil  make  you  treat  me  so? 


426  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Sare,  I  inform  you,  sare,  three  nights  ago, 

Got  tam —  I  swear,  no  Monsieur  Tonson  here  !  " 

True  as  the  night,  King  went,  and  heard  a  strife 
Between  the  harass'd  Frenchman  and  his  wife. 

Which  would  descend  to  chase  the  fiend  away. 
At  length,  to  join  their  forces  they  agree. 
And  straight  impetuously  they  turn  the  key, 

Prepai'ed  with  mutual  fury  for  the  fray. 

Our  hero,  with  the  firmness  of  a  rock. 
Collected  to  receive  the  might}'  shock. 

Uttering  the  old  inquiry,  calmly  stood. 
The  name  of  Thompson  raised  the  storm  so  high, 
He  deem'd  it  then  the  safest  plan  to  fl}'. 

With  "  Well,  I'll  call  when  you're  in  gentler  mood.' 

In  short,  our  hero,  with  the  same  intent, 

Full  many  a  night  to  plague  the  Frenchman  went. 

So  fond  of  mischief  was  the  wicked  wit : 
They  throw  out  water ;  for  the  wvatch  they  call ; 
But  King,  expecting,  still  escapes  from  all. 

Monsieur  at  last  was  forced  his  house  to  quit. 

It  happen'd  that  our  wag,  about  this  time. 

On  some  fair  prospect  sought  the  Eastern  clime; 

Six  lingering  years  were  there  his  tedious  lot. 
At  length,  content,  amid  his  ripening  store. 
He  treads  again  on  Britain's  happy  shore, 

And  his  long  absence  is  at  once  forgot. 

To  London,  with  impatient  hope,  he  flies, 
And  the  same  night,  as  former  freaks  arise. 

He  fain  must  stroll,  the  well-known  haunt  to  trace. 
"  Ah  !  here's  the  scene  of  frequent  mirth,"  he  said  ; 
"  My  poor  old  Frenchman,  I  suppose,  is  dead.    ■ 

Egad,  I'll  knock,  and  see  who  holds  the  place." 


LEEDLE    YAWCOB    STRAUSS.  427 

With  rapid  strokes  he  makes  the  mansion  roar, 
And  while  he  eager  eyes  the  opening  door, 

Lo !  who  obe3's  the  knocker's  rattling  peal  ? 
Why,  e'en  our  little  Frenchman,  sti-ange  to  say  I 
He  took  his  old  abode  that  very  day,  — 

Capricious  turn  of  sportive  Fortune's  wheel ! 

Without  one  thought  of  the  relentless  foe, 
Who,  fiend-like,  haunted  him  so  long  ago. 

Just  in  his  former  trim  he  now  appears : 
The  waistcoat  and  the  nightcap  seem'd  the  same ; 
With  rushlight,  as  before,  he  creeping  came, 

And  King's  detested  voice  astonish'd  hears. 

As  if  some  hideous  spectre  struck  his  sight, 
His  senses  seem'd  bewilder'd  with  affright. 

His  face,  indeed,  bespoke  a  heart  full  sore ; 
Then,  starting,  he  exclaim'd,  in  rueful  strain, 
"  Begar  !  here's  Monsieur  Tonson  come  again  !  " 

Aw  a}'  he  ran,  and  ne'er  was  heard  of  more. 

GERMAN. 

LEEDLE  YAWOOB   STKAUSS. 

Charles  F.  Adams. 

I  HAF  von  funny  leedle  poy 

Vot  gomes  schust  to  my  knee,  — 

Der  queerest  schap,  der  createst  rogue 

As  efer  you  dit  see. 

He  runs,  und  schumps,  und  schmashes  dings 

In  all  barts  off  der  house. 

But  vot  off  dot?     He  vas  mine  son. 

Mine  leedle  Yawcob  Strauss. 

He  get  der  measles  und  dor  murabs, 
Und  everydmg  dot's  oudt ; 


428  CHOICE    READINGS. 

He  sbills  mine  glass  off  lager  bier, 

Poots  schuuff  indo  mine  kraut; 

He  fills  mine  pipe  mit  Limburg  cheese,  — 

Dot  vas  der  roughest  chouse  ; 

I'd  dake  dot  vrom  no  oder  poy 

But  leedle  Yawcob  Strauss. 

He  dakes  der  milk-ban  for  a  dhrum, 

Und  cuts  mine  cane  in  dwo 

To  make  der  schticks  to  beat  it  mit,  — 

Mine  cracious,  dot  vas  drue  ! 

I  dinks  mine  hed  vas  schplit  abart, 

He  kicks  oup  sooch  a  touse  ; 

But  nefer  miud,  der  po3-s  vas  few 

Like  dot  young  Yawcob  Strauss. 

He  asks  me  questions  sooch  as  dese : 

"Who  baints  mine  nose  so  red  ? 

Who  vos  it  cuts  dot  schmoodth  blace  oudt 

From  der  hair  ubou  mine  hed  ? 

Und  vhere  der  plaze  goes  vrom  der  lamp 

Vene'er  der  glim  I  douse  ? 

How  gan  I  all  dese  dings  eggsblain 

To  dot  schmall  Yawcob  Strauss  ? 

I  somedimes  dink  I  schall  go  vild 

Mit  sooch  a  grazy  poy, 

Und  vish  vonce  more  I  gould  haf  rest 

Und  beaceful  dimes  enshoy  : 

But  ven  he  vas  ashleep  in  ped, 

So  quiet  as  a  mouse, 

I  prays  der  Lord,  "  Dake  an^diugs, 

But  leaf  dot  Yawcob  Strauss." 


"SOCKEKV"    SETTING    A    IIEN.  429 


"SOOKEKY"    SETTING   A   HEN. 

Meester  Verris  :  1  see  dot  mosd  efterpoty  wrides  some- 
thing for  de  shicken  pabers  nowtays,  and  I  tought  praps 
meppe  I  can  do  dot,  too  ;  so  I  wride  all  apout  vot  dook  blace 
mit  me  lasht  Summer  :  you  know  —  oder,  uf  you  dond  know, 
den  I  dells  you  —  dot  Katrina  (dot  is  mine  vrow)  und  me, 
ve  keep  some  shickeus  for  a  long  dime  ago,  und  von  tay  she 
sait  to  me,  "  Sockery,"  (dot  is  mein  name,)  ''  vy  dond  you 
put  some  uf  de  aigs  under  dot  olt  plue  hen  shickens.  I  dinks 
she  vants  to  sate."  "  Veil,"  I  sait,  "  meppe,  I  guess  I  vill." 
So  I  bicked  oud  some  ou  de  best  aigs,  und  dook  um  oud  do  de 
parn  fere  de  olt  hen  make  her  neshtin  de  side  of  de  haymow, 
poud  fife  six  veet  up.  Now  you  see  I  nefer  was  ferr}'  pig  up 
and  down,  but  I  vas  poot}-  pig  all  de  va}'  around  in  de  mittle, 
so  I  koodn't  reach  up  till  I  vent  und  got  a  parrel  do  stant  on. 
Veil,  I  klimet  me  on  de  parrel,  und  ven  my  hed  rise  up  py  de 
nesht,  de  olt  hen  she  gif  me  such  a  bick  dot  mj'  nose  runs  all 
over  m^'  face  mit  plood,  und  ven  I  todge  pack  dot  plasted 
olt  parrel  het  preak,  und  I  vent  town  kershlam. 

Py  cholly,  I  didn't  tink  I  kood  go  insite  a  parrel  pefore, 
but  dere  I  vas,  und  I  fit  so  dite  dot  I  koodn't  git  me  oud 
efferway,  —  my  fest  vas  bushed  vay  up  unter  my  arm-holes. 
Ven  I  fount  I  vos  dite  shtuck,  I  holler,  "  Katrina  !  Katrina  !  " 
Und  ven  she  koom  and  see  me  shtuck  in  de  parrel  up  to  my 
arm-holes,  mit  my  face  all  plood  und  aigs,  by  choll}',  she 
chust  lait  town  on  de  ha}-  und  laft,  und  laft  till  I  got  so  mat 
I  sait,  "  Vot  you  lay  dere  und  laf  like  a  olt  vool,  eh?  Vy 
dond  you  koom  bull  me  oud  ?  "  Und  she  set  up  und  sait, 
"  O,  vipe  off  your  chin,  und  bull  Aour  fest  down"  ;  den  she 
lait  back  und  laft  like  she  vood  shplit  herself  more  as  ever. 

Mat  as  I  vas,  I  tought  to  myself,  Katrina,  she  sbeak  Eng- 
lish pooty  good  ;  but  I  only  sait,  mit  m^'  greatest  dignitude, 
"  Katrina,  vill  you  bull  me  oud  dis  parrel?"  Und  she  see 
dot  I  look  pooty  red,  so  she  sait,  ''  Of  course  I  vill,  Sockery." 
Den  she  lait  me  und  de  parrel  town  ou  our  site,  und  I  dook 


430  CHOICE    READINGS. 

holt  de  door  sill,  and  Katrina  she  bull  on  de  parrel,  but  de 
first  bull  she  mate  I  yellet,  "  Douner  uud  blitzen,  shtop  dat, 
p}^  golly ;  dere  is  uails  in  de  parrel!"  You  see  de  nails 
bent  town  ven  I  vent  in,  but  ven  I  koom  oud  dej  schticks  in 
me  all  de  vay  rount.  Veil,  to  make  a  short  shtory  long,  I 
told  Katrina  to  go  und  dell  naypor  Hansman  to  pring  a  saw 
und  saw  me  dis  parrel  off.  Veil,  he  koom  und  he  like  to 
sphlit  himself  mit  laf,  too,  but  he  roll  me  ofer  und  saw  de 
parrel  all  de  vaj-  around  off,  und  I  git  up  mit  half  a  parrel 
around  my  vaist.  Den  Katrina  she  say,  "  Sockery,  vait  a 
leetle  till  I  get  a  battern  of  dot  new  oferskirt  you  haf  on." 
But  I  didn't  sait  a  vort ;  I  shust  got  a  uife  oud,  und  vittle  de 
hoops  olT,  und  shling  dot  confounted  olt  parrel  in  de  voot 
pile. 

Pimeb}',  ven  I  koom  in  de  house,  Katrina  she  said,  so  soft 
like,  "  Sockery,  dond  you  go  in  to  put  some  aigs  under  dot 
olt  plue  hen?"  den  I  sait,  in  my  deepest  voice,  "Katrina, 
uff ,you  eflfer  say  dot  to  me  again  I'll  git  a  pill  from  30U,  so 
help  me  chimin}-  cracious  !  "  Und  I  dell  you  she  didn't  say 
dot  any  more.  Veil,  ven  I  step  on  a  parrel  now,  I  dond 
step  on  it,  I  git  a  pox. 


IRISH. 
OONNOE. 

"To  the  memory  of  Patrick  Connor  :   this  simple  stone  was  erected  by 
his  fellow-workmen." 

Those  words  you  may  read  any  day  upon  a  white  slab  in 
a  cemeter}'  not  many  miles  from  New  York  ;  but  you  might 
read  them  a  lumdred  times  without  guessing  at  the  little 
tragedy  the}'  indicate,  without  knowing  the  humble  romance 
which  ended  with  the  placing  of  that  stone  above  the  dust  of 
one  poor,  humble  man. 

In  his  shabby  frieze  jacket  and  mud-laden  brogans,  he  was 
scarcely  an  attractive  object  as  he  walked  into  Mr.  Bawne's 


CONNOR.  431 

great  tin  and  hardware  shop  one  day,  and  presented  himself 
at  the  counter  with  an 

"  I've  been  tould  ye  advertized  for  hands,  yer  Honour." 

''J'ully  supplied,  my  man,"  said  Mr.  Bawne,  not  lifting 
his  head  from  his  account-book. 

"  I'd  work  faithfully,  sir,  and  take  low  wages,  till  I  could 
do  better,  and  I'd  learn,  — I  would  that." 

It  was  an  Irish  brogue,  and  jNIr.  Bawne  always  declared 
that  he  never  would  employ  an  incompetent  hand.  Yet  the 
tone  attracted  him.  He  tiu-ned  briskly,  and,  with  his  pen 
behind  his  ear,  addressed  the  man,  who  was  only  one  of  fifty 
who  had  answered  his  advertisement  for  four  workmen  that 
morning.  ' '  What  makes  3'ou  expect  to  learn  faster  than 
other  folks?    are  30U  any  smarter?" 

"I'll  not  sa}-  that,"  said  the  man;  "•but  I'd  be  wishing 
to  ;  and  that  would  make  it  aisier." 

"■  Are  you  used  to  the  work?" 

"I've  done  a  bit  of  it." 

"Much?" 

"  No,  yer  Honour,  I'll  tell  no  lie  ;  Tim  O'Toole  hadn't  the 
like  of  this  place  ;  but  1  know  a  bit  about  tins." 

"  You  are  too  old  for  an  apprentice,  and  ^'ou'd  be  in  the 
wa}',  I  calculate,"  said  Mr.  Bawne,  looking  at  the  brawny 
arms  and  bright  e3'es  that  i)romised  strength  and  intelligence. 
"[Besides,  I  know  your  country-men,  —  laz}',  good-for-nothing 
fellows  who  never  do  their  best.  No,  I've  been  taken  in  by 
Irish  hands  before,  and  I  won't  have  another." 

"  The  Virgin  will  have  to  be  after  bringing  them  over  to 
me  in  her  two  arms,  thin,"  said  the  man,  despairingly,  "  for 
I've  tramped  all  the  day  for  the  last  fortnight,  and  uiver  a 
job  can  I  get,  and  tluxt's  the  last  penny  I  have,  yer  Honour, 
and  it's  but  a  half  one." 

As  he  spoke,  he  spread  his  palm  open,  with  an  English 
iialf-penny  in  it. 

"  Bring  whom  over?"  asked  Mr.  Bawne,  arrested  b}' the 
odd  speech,  as  he  turned  upon  his  heel  and  turned  back 
again. 


432  CHOICE  readings. 

"  Jist  Nora  and  Jamesy." 

"Who  are  they?" 

"The  wan's  me  wife,  the  other  me  child,"  said  the  man. 
"  O  masther,  just  thry  me.  How'll  I  hring  'em  over  to  me, 
if  no  one  will  give  me  a  job  ?  I  want  to  be  aiming,  and  the 
whole  big  cit}'  seems  against  it,  and  me  with  arms  like 
them." 

He  bared  his  arms  to  the  shoulder,  as  he  spoke,  and  Mr. 
Bawne  looked  at  them,  and  then  at  his  face. 

"I'll  hire  3'ou  for  a  week,"  he  said;  "and  now,  as  it's 
noon,  go  down  to  the  kitchen,  and  toll  the  girl  to  get  you 
some  dinner,  —  a  hungry  man  can't  work." 

With  an  Irish  blessing,  the  new  hand  obeyed,  while  Mr. 
Bawne,  unt3'ing  his  apron,  went  up  stairs  to  his  own  meal. 
Suspicious  as  he  was  of  the  new  hand's  integrity  and  ability, 
he  was  agreeably  disappointed.  Connor  worked  hard,  and 
actually  learned  fast.  At  the  end  of  the  week  he  was  en- 
gaged permanently,  and  soon  was  the  best  workman  in  the 
shop. 

He  was  a  great  talker,  but  not  fond  of  drink  or  wasting 
money.  As  his  wages  grew,  he  hoarded  evei-y  penny,  and 
wore  the  same  shabby  clothes  in  which  he  had  made  his  first 
appearance. 

"  Beer  costs  money,"  he  said  one  day,  "  and  ivery  cent  I 
spind  puts  off  the  bringing  Nora  and  Jamesy  over ;  and  as 
for  clothes,  them  I  have  must  do  me.  Better  no  coat  to  m\' 
back  than  no  wife  and  boy  b}'  my  fireside ;  and,  anyliow,  it's 
slow  work  saving." 

He  kept  his  way,  a  martyr  to  his  one  great  wish,  living  on 
little,  working  at  night  on  any  extra  job  that  he  could  earn  a 
few  shillings  ])y.  running  errands  in  his  noon-tide  hours  of 
rest,  and  talking  to  any  one  wlio  would  listen  to  him  of  his 
one  great  hope,  and  of  Nora  and  of  little  Jamesy. 

At  first  the  men  who  prided  themselves  on  being  all  Amer- 
icans, and  on  turning  out  the  best  work  in  the  cit}',  made  a 
sort  of  butt  of  Connor,  whose  "wild  Irish"  ways  and  ver- 
dancy were  indeed  often  laughable.     But  he  won  their  hearts 


CONNOR.  433 

at  last,  and  when  one  day,  mounting  a  work-beucli,  he  shook 
his  little  bundle,  wrapped  in  a  red  kerchief,  before  their  e3'es, 
and  shouted,  "Look,  boys;  I've  got  the  whole  at  last!  I'm 
going  to  bring  Nora  and  James}-  over  at  last !  Whorooo  !  ! 
I've  got  it !  !  ! "  all  felt  sympathy  in  his  joy,  and  eacli 
grasped  his  great  hand  in  cordial  congratulations,  and  one 
proposed  to  treat  all  round,  and  drink  a  good  voyage  to 
Nora. 

They  parted  in  a  merry  mood,  most  of  the  men  going 
to  comfortable  homes.  But  poor  Connor's  resting-place  was 
a  poor  lodging-house,  where  he  shared  a  crazy  garret  with 
four  other  men  ;  and  in  the  joy  of  his  heart  the  poor  fellow 
exhil)ited  his  handkerchief,  with  his  hard-earned  savings  tied 
up  in  a  wad  in  the  middle,  before  he  put  it  under  his  pillow 
and  fell  asleep. 

AVhen  he  awakened  in  the  morning,  he  found  his  treasure 
gone  ;  some  villain,  more  contemptible  than  most  bad  men, 
had  robbed  him. 

At  fust  Connor  could  not  even  believe  it  lost.  He  searched 
every  corner  of  the  room,  shook  the  quilt  and  blankets,  and 
begged  those  about  him  "  to  quit  joking,  and  give  it  back." 
But  at  last  he  realized  the  truth  : 

"Is  any  man  that  bad  that  it's  thaved  from  me?"  he 
asked,  in  a  breathless  way.  "•  Boys,  is  an}'  man  that  bad?  " 
And  some  one  answered,  "No  doubt  of  it,  Connor;  it's 
sthole." 

Then  Connor  put  his  head  down  on  his  hands  and  lifted 
up  his  voice  and  wept.  It  was  one  of  those  sights  which 
men  never  forget.  It  seemed  more  than  he  could  bear,  to 
have  Nora  and  his  child  "  put,"  as  he  expressed  it,  "  months 
away  from  him  again." 

But  when  he  went  to  work  that  da}'  it  seemed  to  all  who 
saw  him  that  he  had  picked  up  a  new  determination.  His 
hands  were  never  idle.  His  face  seemed  to  say,  "I'll  have 
Nora  with  me  yet." 

At  noon  he  scratclied  out  a  letter,  blotted  and  very 
strangel}-  scrawled,  telling  Nora  what  had  happened  ;    and 


434  CHOICE    READINGS. 

those  who  observed  him  noticed  that  he  had  no  meat  with 
his  dinner.  Indeed,  from  that  moment  he  lived  on  bread, 
potatoes,  and  cold  water,  and  worked  as  few  men  ever  worked 
before.  — It  grew  to  be  the  talk  of  the  shop  ;  and,  now  that 
sympathy  was  excited,  every  one  wanted  to  help  Connor. 
Jobs  were  thrown  in  his  way,  kind  words  and  friendly  wishes 
helped  him  mightily  ;  but  no  power  could  make  him  share 
the  food  or  drink  of  any  other  workman.  It  seemed  a  sort 
of  charity  to  him. 

Still  he  was  helped  along.  A  present  from  Mr.  Bawne,  at 
pay-day,  set  Nora,  as  he  said,  "a  week  nearer,"  and  this 
and  that  and  the  other  added  to  the  little  hoard.  It  grew 
faster  than  the  first,  and  Connor's  burden  was  not  so  heav}". 

At  last,  before  he  hoped  it,  he  was  once  more  able  to  say, 
"I'm  going  to  bring  tliem  over,"  and  to  show  his  handker- 
chief, in  which,  as  before,  he  tied  up  his  earnings  ;  this  time, 
however,  only  to  his  friends.  Cautious  among  strangers,  he 
hid  the  treasure,  and  kept  his  vest  buttoned  over  it  night 
and  day  until  the  tickets  were  bought  and  sent.  Then  every 
man,  woman,  and  child,  capable  of  hearing  or  understand- 
mg,  knew  that  Nora  and  her  baby  were  coming. 

The  days  flew  by  and  brought  at  last  a  letter  from  his 
wife.  She  would  start  as  he  desired,  and  she  was  well  and 
so  was  the  boy  ;  and  might  the  Lord  bring  them  safely  to 
each  other's  arms  and  bless  them  who  had  been  so  kind  to 
him !  That  was  the  substance  of  the  epistle  which  Connor 
proudl}'  assured  his  fellow-workmen  Nora  wrote  herself. 
She  had  lived  at  service  as  a  girl,  with  a  certain  good  old 
lady,  who  had  given  her  the  items  of  an  education,  which 
Connor  told  upon  his  fingers.  "  The  radin',  that's  one,  and 
the  writin',  that's  three,  and,  moreover,  she  knows  all  that  a 
woman  can."  Then  he  looked  up  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  and 
asked,  "Do  you  wondher  the  time  seems  long  between  me 
an'  her,  boys  ?  " 

So  it  was.  Nora  at  the  dawn  of  day,  Nora  at  noon,  Nora 
at  night,  until  the  news  came  that  the  Stormy  Petrel  had 


CONNOR.  435 

come  to  port,  aud  Connor,  breathless  and  pale  with  excite- 
ment, flnng  his  cap  in  the  air  and  shouted. 

It  happened  on  a  hoUday  afternoon,  and  half-a-dozen  men 
were  ready  to  go  with  Connor,  to  the  steamer,  and  give  his 
wife  a  greeting.  Her  little  home  was  ready  ;  Mr.  Bawue's 
own  servant  had  put  it  in  order,  and  Connor  took  one  peep 
at  it  before  he  started. 

"  She  hadn't  the  like  of  that  in  the  old  counthry,"  he  said, 
"  but  she'll  know  how  to  keep  them  tidy." 

Then  he  led  the  way  towards  the  dock  where  the  steamer 
lay,  and  at  a  pace  that  made  it  hard  for  the  rest  to  follow 
him.  The  spot  was  reached  at  last ;  a  crowd  of  vehicles 
blockaded  the  street ;  a  troop  of  emigrants  came  thronging 
up ;  fine  cabin  passengers  were  stepping  into  cabs,  and 
drivers,  porters,  and  all  manner  of  emplo3'ees  were  yelling 
and  shouting  in  the  usual  manner.  Nora  would  wait  on 
board  for  her  husband,  he  knew  that. 

The  little  group  made  their  way  into  the  vessel  at  last,  and 
there,  amid  those  who  sat  watching  for  coming  friends,  Con- 
nor searched  for  the  two  so  dear  to  him  ;  patiently  at  first, 
eager!}'  but  patiently,  but  by-and-by  growing  anxious  and 
excited. 

"  She  would  never  go  alone,"  he  said,  "  she'd  be  lost 
entirel}' ;  I  bade  her  wait,  but  I  don't  see  her,  boys ;  I  think 
she's  not  in  it." 

'^  Why  don't  you  see  the  captain  ?  "  asked  one,  and  Connor 
jumped  at  the  suggestion.  In  a  few  minutes  he  stood  before 
a  portl}',  rubicund  man,  who  nodded  to  him  kindly. 

"I  am  looking  for  my  wife,  3er  Honour,"  said  Connor, 
"  and  I  can't  find  her." 

"  Perhaps  she's  gone  ashore,"  said  the  captain. 

"  I  bade  her  wait,"  said  Connor. 

"  Women  don't  always  do  as  they  are  bid,  you  know," 
said  the  captain. 

"  Nora  would,"  said  Connor;  "but  maybe  she  was  left 
behind.  Maybe  she  didn't  come.  I  somehow  think  she 
didn't." 


436  CHOICE    READINGS. 

At  the  name  of  Nora  the  captain  started.  In  a  moment 
he  asked : 

"  What  is  your  name  ?  " 

"Pat  Connor,"  said  the  man. 

"And  your  wife's  name  was  Nora?" 

"  That's  her  name,  and  the  boy  with  her  is  James}',  yer 
Honour,"  said  Connor. 

The  captain  looked  at  Connor's  friends  ;  they  looked  at  the 
captain.  Then  he  said  huskily,  "Sit  down,  my  man  !  I've 
got  something  to  tell  you." 

"  She's  left  behind,"  said  Connor. 

"  She  sailed  with  us,"  said  the  captain. 

"  Where  is  she?  "  asked  Connor. 

The  captain  made  no  answer. 

"  My  man,"  he  said,  "  we  all  have  our  trials;  God  sends 
them.     Yes,  Nora  started  with  us." 

Connor  said  nothing.  He  was  looking  at  the  captain  now, 
white  to  his  lips. 

"  It's  been  a  sickly  season,"  said  the  captain  ;  "  we  have 
had  illness  on  board. — the  cholera.     You  know  that." 

"I  didn't.  I  can't  read;  they  kept  it  from  me,"  said 
Connor. 

"We  didn't  want  to  frighten  him,"  said  one  in  a  half 
whisper. 

"  You  know  how  long  we  lay  at  quarantine?  " 

"The  ship  I  came  in  did  that,"  said  Connor.  "  Did  ye 
say  Nora  went  ashore?  Ought  I  to  be  looking  for  her, 
captain?  " 

"Many  died,  many  children,"  went  on  the  captain. 
"  When  we  were  halfway  here  your  boy  was  taken  sick." 

"  Jamesy,"  gasped  Connor. 

"His  mother  watched  him  night  and  dav,"  said  the  cap- 
tain, "  and  we  did  all  we  could,  but  at  last  he  died;  only 
one  of  man}'.  There  were  five  buried  that  day.  But  it 
broke  my  heart  to  see  the  mother  looking  out  upon  the 
water.  '  It's  his  father  I  think  of,'  said  she  ;  '  he's  longing 
to  see  poor  Jamesy.'  " 


MISS    MALONY    ON    THE    CHINESE    QUESTION.  437 

Connor  groaned. 

"Keep  np,  if  j-ou  can,  my  man,"  said  the  captain.  "I 
wish  any  one  else  had  it  to  tell  rather  than  I.  That  night 
Nora  was  taken  ill  also;  very  suddenh',  she  grew  worse  fast. 
In  the  morning  she  called  me  to  her.  '  Tell  Connor  I  died 
thinking  of  him,'  she  said,  'and  tell  him  to  meet  me.' 
And  my  man,  God  help  you,  she  never  said  any  thing  more, 
—  and  in  an  hour  she  was  gone." 

Connor  had  risen.  He  stood  up,  trying  to  stead}'  himself, 
looking  at  the  captain  with  his  eyes  as  drj'  as  two  stones. 
Then  he  turned  to  his  friends  : 

"  I've  got  my  death,  boys,"  he  said,  and  then  dropped  to 
the  deck  like  a  log. 

They  raised  him  and  bore  him  away.  In  an  hour  he  was 
at  home  on  the  little  bed  which  had  been  made  ready  for 
Nora,  weary  with  her  long  voyage.  There,  at  last,  he  opened 
his  eyes.  Old  Mr.  Bawne  bent  over  him  :  he  had  been  sum- 
moned by  the  news,  and  the  room  was  full  of  Connor's  fellow- 
workmen. 

"  Better,  Connor?  "  asked  the  old  man. 

"•  A  dale,"  said  Connor.  "  It's  aisy  now  ;  I'll  be  with  her 
soon.  And  look  ye,  masther,  I've  learnt  one  thing,  —  God 
is  good  ;  He  wouldn't  let  me  bring  Nora  over  to  me,  but  He's 
takin'  me  over  to  her  and  Jamesy  over  the  river  :  don't  you 
see  it,  and  her  standin'  on  tlie  other  side  to  welcome  me?" 

And  with  these  words  Connor  stretched  out  his  arms. 
Perhaps  he  did  see  Nora,  —  Heaven  only  knows,  —  and  so 
died. 

»Oj«<CM>- — 

MISS   MALONY   ON   THE  CHINESE   QUESTION. 

Mrs.  Maky  iMai'ES  Dodge. 

OcH  !  don't  l»e  talkui'.  i.s  it  hotvkl  on  ye  say?  An'  didn't 
I  howld  on  till  the  heart  of  me  was  clane  broke  entirely,  an' 
me  wastin'  that  thin  you  could  clutch  me  wid  yer  two  hands  ? 
To  think  o'  me  toilin'  like  a  nager,  for  the  six  year  I've  been 
in  Ameriky,  —  bad  luck  to  the  day  I  iver  left  the  owld  conn- 


438  CHOICE    READINGS. 

thry  !  to  be  bate  by  the  likes  o'  them  !  (faix  an'  I'll  sit  down 
when  I'm  ready,  so  I  will,  Ann  Rj'an,  an'  ye'd  better  be  Kst- 
nin'  than  drawin'  j^our  remarks,)  an'  is  it  meself,  with  five 
good  characters  from  respectable  places,  would  be  herdin' 
wid  the  haythens?  The  saints  forgive  me,  but  I'd  be  buried 
alive  sooner' n  put  up  wid  it  a  day  longer.  Sure  an'  I  was 
the  granehorn  not  to  be  lavin'  at  onct  when  the  missus  kim 
into  me  kitchen  wid  her  perlaver  about  the  new  waiter-man 
which  was  brought  out  from  Calif oru}-.  "  He'll  be  here  the 
night,"  sajs  she,  "  an'  Kitty,  it's  meself  looks  to  a'Ou  to  be 
kind  and  patient  wid  him  for  he's  a  furriner,"  says  she,  a 
kind  o'  lookin'  off.  "  Sure  an'  it's  little  I'll  hinder  nor  inter- 
fare  wid  him  nor  any  other,  mum,"  says  I,  a  kind  o'  stiff, 
for  I  minded  me  hoAv  these  French  waiters,  wid  their  paper 
collars  an'  brass  rings  on  their  fingers,  isn't  compau}'  for  no 
gurril  brought  up  dacint  an'  honest.  Och !  sorra  a  bit  I 
knew  what  was  comin'  till  the  missus  walked  into  me  kitchen 
smilin',  an'  sa3-s,  kind  o'  sheared,  "Here's  Fing  Wing, 
Kitty,  an'  you'll  have  too  much  sinse  to  mind  his  bein'  a 
little  strange." 

Wid  that  she  shoots  the  doore,  an'  I,  misthrusting  if  I  was 
tidied  up  sufficient  for  me  fine  buy  wid  his  paper  collar, 
looks  up  an'  —  howly  fathers  !  may  I  niver  brathe  another 
breath,  but  there  stud  a  rale  haythen  Chineser  a-griunin' 
like  he'd  just  come  off  a  tay-box.  If  you'll  belaA'e  me,  the 
crayture  was  that  yallar  it  'ud  sicken  you  to  see  him  ;  an' 
sorra  a  stitch  was  on  him,  but  a  black  night-gown  over  his 
trowsers,  an'  the  front  of  his  head  shaved  claner  nor  a  cop- 
per biler,  an'  a  black  tail  a-hangin'  down  from  behind,  wid 
his  two  feet  stook  into  the  ha^thenestest  shoes  3'ou  ever  set 
eyes  on.  Och  !  but  I  was  up  stairs  before  j^ou  could  turn 
about,  a-givin'  the  missus  warnin',  an'  onl}-  stopt  wid  her  by 
her  raisin'  me  Avages  two  dollars,  an'  playdin'  wid  me  how  it 
was  a  Christian's  duty  to  bear  wid  haythins,  an'  taich  'em  all 
in  our  power,  —  the  saints  save  us!  Well,  the  ways  an' 
trials  I  had  wid  that  Chineser,  Ann  Ryan,  I  couldn't  be 
tcllin'.     Not  a  blissed  thing  cud  I  do,  but  he'd  be  lookin'  on 


MISS    MALONY    ON    THE    CHINESE    QUESTION.  439 

wid  eyes  cocked  up'ard  like  two  poomp-handles,  an'  he 
widdout  a  speck  or  smitch  o'  whishkers  on  him,  an'  his  finger 
nails  full  a  yard  long.  But  it's  d3in'  you'd  be  to  see  the 
missus  a-larnin'  him,  an'  he  grinniu'  an'  waggin'  his  pig-tail, 
(which  was  pieced  out  long  wid  some  black  stoof ,  the  hay- 
then  chate  !)  an'  gettin'  into  her  ways  wonderful  quick,  I 
don't  den}',  imitatin'  that  sharp,  you'd  be  shurprised,  an' 
ketchin'  an'  copyin'  things  the  best  of  us  will  do  a-hurried 
wid  work,  yet  don't  wan't  comin'  to  the  knowledge  of  the 
family,  —  bad  luck  to  him  ! 

Is  it  ate  wid  him?  Arrah,  an'  would  I  be  sittin'  wid  a 
haythen,  an'  he  a-atin  wid  drum  sticks,  ^ — yes,  an'  atin'  dogs 
an'  cats  unknownst  to  me,  I  warrant  you,  which  it  is  the 
custom  of  them  Chinesers,  till  the  thought  made  me  that 
sick  I  could  die.  An'  didn't  the  crayture  proffer  to  help  me 
a  wake  ago  come  Toosda^',  an'  me  a  foldin'  down  me  clane 
clothes  for  ironin',  an'  fill  his  hay  thin  mouth  wid  water,  an', 
afore  I  could  hinder,  squirrit  it  through  his  teeth  stret  over 
the  best  linen  table-cloth,  au'  fold  it  up  tight,  as  innercent 
now  as  a  bab}',  the  dirrity  baste  !  But  the  worrest  of  all 
was  the  copyin'  he'd  be  doiu'  till  ye'd  be  dishtracted.  It's 
yerself  knows  the  tinder  feet  that's  on  me  since  iver  I've 
bin  in  this  counthry.  Well,  owin'  to  that,  I  fell  into  a  way 
o'  slippin'  me  shoes  off  when  I'd  be  settin'  down  to  pale  the 
praties  or  the  likes  o'  that,  an',  do  ye  mind?  that  haythen 
would  do  the  same  thing  after  me,  whinivir  the  missus  set 
him  to  parin'  apples  or  tomaterses.  The  saints  in  Heaven 
couldn't  have  made  him  belave  he  cud  kape  the  shoes  on  him 
when  he'd  be  paylin'  any  thing. 

Did  I  lave  fur  that?  Faix,  an'  I  didn't.  Didn't  he  get 
me  into  throuble  with  me  missus,  the  haj'then?  You're 
aware  yersel'  how  the  boondles  comin'  in  from  tlie  grocery- 
often  contains  more'n'll  go  into  any  thing  dacentl}'.  So,  for 
that  matter,  I'd  now  an'  then  take  out  a  sup  o'  sugar,  or 
flour,  or  tay,  an'  wrap  it  in  paper,  an'  put  it  in  me  bit  of  a 
box  tucked  under  the  ironin'  blankit,  the  how  it  cuddent  be 
bodderin'  any  one.     Well,  what  shud  it  be,  but  this  blessed 


440  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Sathurda}'  morn,  the  missus  was  a  spakin'  pleasaut  an'  re- 
spec'ful  wid  me  in  me  kitchen,  when  the  grocer  boy  comes 
in  an'  stands  fornenst  her  wid  his  boondles,  an'  she  motions 
like  to  Fing  Wing,  (which  I  never  would  call  him  by  that 
name  nor  any  other  but  just  ha3thin,)  she  motions  to  him, 
she  does,  for  to  take  the  boondles  an'  empty  out  the  sugar, 
an'  what  not,  where  they  belongs.  If  you'll  belave  me,  Ann 
Ryan,  what  did  that  blatherin'  Chineser  do  but  take  out  a 
sup  o'  sugar,  an'  a  handful  o'  tay,  an'  a  bit  o'  chase  right 
afore  the  missus,  wrap  them  into  bits  o'  paper,  an'  I  spache- 
less  wid  shurprise,  an'  he  the  next  minute  up  wid  the  ironin' 
blankit  an'  pullin'  out  me  box  wid  a  show  o'  bein'  sly  to  put 
them  in.  Och,  the  Lord  forgive  me,  but  I  clutched  it,  an' 
the  missus  sayin',  "O  Kitty  !"  in  a  way  that  'ud  crnddle 
your  blood.  "•  He's  a  haythin  nager,"  sa3s  I.  "I've  found 
you  out,"  says  she.  '"I'll  arrist  him,"  says  I.  '•'•  It's  ?/o?i 
ought  to  be  arristed,"  says  she.  "You  won't,"  savs  I.  "I 
will,"  says  she  ;  an'  so  it  went  till  she  give  me  such  sass  as 
I  cuddent  take  from  no  lady,  an'  I  give  her  warnin'  an'  left 
that  instant,  an'  she  a-pointin'  to  the  doore. 


JIMMY    BUTLEE  AND  THE   OWL. 

'TwAS  in  the  Summer  of  '46  that  I  landed  at  Hamilton, 
fresh  as  a  new  pratie  just  dug  from  the  "  oiild  sod,"  an'  wid 
a  light  heart  an'  a  heavy  bundle  I  sot  off  for  the  township  of 
Buford,  tiding  a  taste  of  a  song,  as  merry  a  young  fellow  as 
iver  took  the  road.  Well,  I  trudged  on  an'  on,  past  many  a 
plisint  place,  pleasin'  myself  wid  the  thought  that  some  day 
I  might  have  a  place  of  my  own,  wid  a  world  of  chickens  an' 
ducks  an'  pigs  an'  childer  about  the  door ;  an'  along  in  the 
afternoon  of  the  sicond  day  I  got  to  Buford  village.  A  cousin 
of  me  mother's,  one  Dennis  O'Dowd,  lived  about  sivin  miles 
from  there,  an'  I  wanted  to  make  his  place  that  night,  so  I 
inquired  the  wa}'  at  the  tavern,  an'  was  lucky  to  find  a  man 
who  was  goiu'  pai't  of  the  way,  an'  would  show  me  the  way 


JIMMY    BUTLER    AND    THE    OWL.  441 

to  find  Dennis.  Sure  he  was  very  kind  indade,  an',  when  1 
got  out  of  his  wagon,  he  pointed  me  tlirougli  the  wood,  an' 
tonld  me  to  go  straiglit  south  a  mile  an'  a  half,  an'  the  first 
house  would  be  Dennis's. 

'•An'  3'ou've  no  time  to  lose  now,"  said  he,  "  for  the  Sun 
is  low,  an'  mind  30U  don't  get  lost  in  the  woods." 

"•  Is  it  lost  now,"  said  I,  "  that  I'd  l)e  gittin',  an'  me  uncle 
as  great  a  navigator  as  iver  steered  a  ship  across  the  thrack- 
less  say?  Not  a  bit  of  it,  though  I'm  obleeged  to  3'e  for 
your  kind  advice,  an'  thank  yiz  for  the  ride." 

An'  wid  that  he  drove  off  an'  left  me  alone.  I  shouldered 
Hie  bundle  bravely,  an',  whistlin'  a  bit  of  time  for  company 
like,  I  pushed  into  the  bush.  Well,  I  went  a  long  wa}'  over 
bogs,  an'  turniu'  round  among  the  bush  an'  trees  till  I  began 
to  think  I  must  be  well  nigh  to  Dennis's.  But,  bad  cess  to 
it !  all  of  a  sudden  I  came  out  of  the  woods  at  the  very  iden- 
tical spot  where  I  started  in,  which  I  knew  by  an  ould 
crotched  tree  that  seemed  to  be  standin'  on  its  head  an'  kick- 
in'  up  its  heels  to  make  divarsion  of  me.  By  this  time  it 
was  growin'  dark,  an',  as  there  was  no  time  to  lose,  I  started 
in  a  second  time,  determined  to  keep  straight  south  this  time, 
an'  no  mistake.  I  got  on  bravely  for  a  while,  but  och  hone  ! 
och  hone  !  it  got  so  dark  I  couldn't  see  the  trees,  an'  I 
bumped  me  nose  an'  barked  mc  shins,  while  the  miskatios 
bit  me  hands  an'  face  to  a  blister;  an',  after  tumblin'  an' 
stumblin'  aroiuid  till  I  was  fairly  bamfoozled,  I  sat  down  on 
a  log,  all  of  a  triinble,  to  think  that  I  was  lost  intirely,  an' 
that  maybe  a  lion  or  some  other  wild  craythur  would  devour 
me  before  morning. 

Just  then  I  heard  somebody  a  long  way  off  say,  "Whip 
poor  Will!"  "  Bedad,"  sez  I,  "I'm  glad  it  isn't  Jamie 
that's  got  to  take  it,  though  it  seems  it's  more  in  sorrow  than 
in  anger  the}'  are  doin'  it,  or  why  should  they  say,  '  poor 
Will'?  an'  sure  they  can't  be  Injin,  haythin,  or  na3'gur,  for 
it's  plain  English  they're  afther  spakin'.  Maybe  they  might 
help  me  out  o'  this,"  so  I  shouted  at  the  top  of  my  voice, 


442  CHOICE    IIKADINGS. 

•'■A  lost  man!"  Thin  I  listened.  Prisently  an  answer 
came. 

"Who!     Whoo!     Whooo !  " 

"Jamie  Butler,  the  waiver!"  sez  I,  as  loud  as  I  could 
roar,  an',  snatchin'  up  me  bundle  an'  stick,  I  started  in  the 
direction  of  the  voice.  Whin  I  thought  I  had  got  near  the 
place,  I  stopped  an'  shouted  again,  "  A  lost  man  !  " 

"Who!  Whoo!  AVhooo  !  "  said  a  voice  right  over  my 
head. 

"  Sure,"  thinks  I,  "  it's  a  miglity  quare  place  for  a  man  to 
be  at  this  time  of  night ;  maybe  it's  some  settler  scrapin' 
sugar  off  a  sugar-bush  for  the  children's  breakfast  in  tlie 
mornin'.  But  where's  Will  and  the  rest  of  them?"  All 
this  wint  through  me  head  like  a  flash,  an'  thin  I  answered 
his  inquiry. 

"Jamie  Butler,  the  waiver,"  sez  I;  "an',  if  it  wouldn't 
inconvanience  yer  Honour,  would  yez  be  kind  enough  to  step 
down  an'  show  me  the  way  to  the  house  of  Dennis 
O'Dowd?" 

"  Who  !     Whoo  !     Whooo  !  "  sez  he. 

"  Dennis  O'Dowd,"  sez  I,  civil  enough,  "  an'  a  dacent 
man  he  is,  and  fii'st  cousin  to  me  own  mother." 

"  Who  !     Whoo  !     Whooo  !  "  says  he  again. 

"  Me  mother  !  "  sez  I,  "  an'  as  fine  a  woman  as  iver  peeled 
a  biled  pratie  wid  her  thumb  nail,  an'  her  maiden  name  was 
Molly  McFiggin." 

"Who!     Whoo!     Whooo!" 

"Paddy  McFiggin!  l)ad  luck  to  3'er  deaf  ould  head, 
Paddy  McFiggin,  I  say,  —  do  ye  hear  that?  An'  he  was 
the  tallest  man  in  all  the  county  Tipperary,  excipt  Jim 
Doyle,  the  blacksmith." 

'^  Who  !     Whoo  !     Wliooo  !  " 

"  Jim  Doyle  the  blacksmith,"  sez  I,  "ye  good  for  nothin' 
blaggard  naygur,  an',  if  yiz  don't  come  down  an'  sliow  me 
the  way  this  min't,  I'll  climb  up  there  an'  break  every  bone 
in  your  skin,  ye  spalpeen,  so  sure  as  me  name  is  Jimmy 
Butler !  " 


JIMMY    14UTLER    AND    THE    OWL.  443 

"  Who  !     Whoo  !     Whooo  !  "  sez  he,  as  impideiit  as  iver. 

I  said  nivev  a  word,  but  laviu'  down  me  buudle,  aii'  takiii' 
nie  stick  iu  me  teeth,  I  began  to  climb  the  tree.  Whin  I 
got  among  the  branches  I  looked  quietly  around  till  I  saw  a 
pair  of  big  eyes  just  forninst  me. 

"  Whist,"  sez  I,  "  an'  I'll  let  liim  have  a  taste  of  an  Irish 
stick,"  an'  wid  that  I  let  drive,  an'  lost  rae  balance  an'  came 
tumblin'  to  the  ground,  nearly  breakin'  me  neck  wid  the  fall. 
When  I  came  to  me  sinsis  I  had  a  very  sore  head,  wid  a  lump 
on  it  like  a  goose  egg,  an'  half  of  me  Sunday  coat-tail  torn 
oir  intirely.  I  spoke  to  the  chap  iu  the  tree,  but  could  git 
niver  an  answer  at  all,  at  all. 

"  Sure,"  thinks  I,  "he  must  have  gone  home  to  rowl  up 
his  head,  for  by  the  powers  I  didn't  throw  me  stick  for 
nothin'." 

AVell,  by  this  time  the  Moon  was  up,  an'  I  could  see  a 
little,  an'  I  detarmined  to  make  one  more  effort  to  reach 
Dennis's. 

I  wint  on  cautiously  for  a  while,  an'  thin  I  heard  a  bell. 
"  Sure,"  sez  I,  "  I'm  comin'  to  a  settlement  now,  for  I  hear 
tlie  church  bell."  I  kept  on  toward  the  sound  till  I  came  to 
an  ould  cow  wid  a  bell  on.  She  started  to  run,  but  I  was 
too  quick  for  her,  an'  got  her  b}'  the  tail  an'  hung  on,  think- 
in'  that  maybe  she  would  take  me  out  of  the  woods.  On  we 
wint,  like  an  ould  countr}-  steeple-chase,  till,  sure  enough, 
we  came  out  to  a  cleariu',  an'  a  house  in  sight  wid  a  light  in 
it.  So,  leavin'  the  ould  cow  puffin'  an'  blowin'  in  a  shed,  I 
went  to  the  house,  an',  as  luck  would  have  it,  whose  should 
it  be  but  Dennis's  ? 

He  gave  me  a  raal  Irish  welcome,  an'  introduced  me  to  his 
two  daughters,  —  as  purt}'  a  pair  of  girls  as  iver  3'e  clapped 
an  eye  on.  But,  whin  I  tould  him  me  adventure  ill  the 
woods,  an'  about  the  fellow  who  made  fun  of  me,  they  all 
laughed  an'  roared,  an'  Dennis  said  it  was  an  owl. 

"  An  ould  what?  "  sez  I. 

"  Why,  an  owl,  a  bird,"  sez  he 


444  CHOICE    READINGS. 

"  Do  ye  tell  me  now?  "  sez  I.  "  Sure  it's  a  quare  country 
and  a  quare  bird." 

Au'  thin  they  all  laughed  again,  till  at  last  I  laughed  my- 
self that  hearty  like,  an'  dropped  right  into  a  chair  between 
tlie  two  party  girls,  an'  the  ould  chap  winked  at  me  and 
roared  again. 

Dennis  is  me  father-in-law  now,  an'  he  often  yet  delights 
to  tell  our  children  about  their  daddy's  adventure  wid  the 
owl. 

ITALIAN. 
A  SENATOR    ENTANGLED. 

James  De  Mille. 

The  Countess  di  Nottinero  was  not  exactly  a  Recamier, 
but  she  was  a  remarkably  brilliant  woman,  and  the  acknowl' 
edged  leader  of  the  liberal  part  of  Florentine  society. 

The  good  Senator  had  never  before  encountered  a 
thoi'ongh  woman  of  the  world,  and  was  as  ignorant  as  a 
child  of  the  innumerable  little  harmless  arts  by  which  the 
power  of  such  a  one  is  extended  and  secured.  At  last  the 
Senator  came  to  this  conclusion,  — La  Cica  was  desperately 
in  love  with  him. 

She  appeared  to  be  a  widow.  At  least  she  had  no  hus- 
l):ind  that  he  had  ever  seen.  Now,  if  the  poor  Oka  was 
iiopelessly  in  love,  it  must  be  stopped  at  once.  But  let  it 
be  done  delicately,  not  abrui)tly. 

One  evening  they  walked  on  the  balcony  of  La  Cica'i^ 
noble  residence.      She  was  sentimental,  devoted,  charming. 

The  conversation  of  a  fascinating  woman  does  not  sound 
so  well  when  it  is  reported  as  it  is  when  uttered.  Her  power 
is  in  her  tone,  her  glance,  her  manner.  Who  can  catch  the 
evanescent  beauty  of  her  expression  or  the  deep  tenderness 
of  her  well  modulated  voice?  —  wlio  indeed? 

'•  Does  ze  scene  please  you,  m^'  Senator?" 

"  Vei'v  tiiiicli  iii(l('('(l." 


A    SENATOR    KNTANGLED.  44 i) 

"Youar  countryman  Imf  tol  me  zey  would  like  to  stay 
here  allowil3^" 

''  It  is  a  beautiful  place." 

"Did  3'ou  aiver  see  an}- thin  moaire  loafoh?"  And  the 
Countess  looked  full  in  his  face. 

'"Never,"  said  the  Senator,  earnestly.  The  next  instant 
he  blushed.     He  had  been  betra^'cd  into  a  compliment. 

The  Countess  sighed. 

''  Helas  !  ray  Senator,  that  it  is  not  pairmitted  to  mortals 
to  sociate  as  zey  would  laike." 

"• '  Your  Senator,'  "  thought  the  gentleman  thus  addressed  ; 
"■  how  foud,  how  tender,  —  poor  thing  !  poor  thing  !  " 

"  I  wish  that  Italy  was  nearer  to  the  States,"  said  he. 

"  How  I  adamiar  youar  st3'le  of  mind,  so  different  from  ze 
Italiana !  You  are  so  strong,  —  so  nobile.  Yet  would  I 
laike  to  see  moar  of  ze  poetic  in  you." 

"I  always  loved  poetr}',  marm,"  said  the  Senator,  des- 
perately. 

"Ah  —  good  —  nais  —  eccelente.  I  am  plees  at  zat," 
cried  the  Countess,  with  much  animation.  "You  would 
loafe  it  moar  eef  you  knew  Italiano.  Your  langua  ees  not 
suHicient  nuxsicale  for  poatry." 

"  It  is  not  so  soft  a  language  as  the  /talian." 

"  Ah  —  no  —  not  so  soft.  Very  well.  And  what  theenka 
you  of  ze  Italiano  ?  " 

"The  sweetest  language  I  ever  heard  in  all  my  born 
days." 

"Ah  now  —  30U  hev  not  heard  much  of  ze  Italiano,  my 
Senator." 

"I  have  heard  you  speak  often,"  said  the  Senator, 
naively. 

"  Ah,  you  compliment!  I  sot  you  was  aboove  flattera." 

And  the  Countess  playfully  tapped  his  arm  with  her  little 
fan. 

"  What  Ingelis  poet  do  you  loafe  best?  " 

"Poet?  English  poet?"  said  the  Senator,  with  some  sur- 


446  CHOICE    READINGS. 

prise.  "  O  —  wh}',  marm,  I  think  "Watts  is  about  the  best 
of  the  lot." 

"  Watt?  "Was  he  a  poet?  I  did  not  know  zat.  He  who 
invented  ze  stlm-injaine  ?  And  yet  if  he  was  a  poet  it  is  nat - 
urale  zat  you  loafe  him  best." 

"  Steam-engine?     O  no  I     This  one  was  a  minister." 

"A  meeneestaire ?  Ah!  an  abbe?  I  know  liim  not. 
Yet  I  have  read  mos  of  all  youar  poets." 

"  He  made  up  hymns,  marm,  and  psalms,  —  for  instance, 
'  Watts's  Divine  Hymns  and  Spiritual  Songs.'  " 

"Songs?  Spirituelle?  Ah,  I  mus  at  once  procuaire  ze 
works  of  Watt,  which  was  favorit  poet  of  my  Senator." 

' '  A  lady  of  such  intelligence  as  you  would  like  the  poet 
"Watts,"  said  the  Senator,  firmly.  "He  is  the  best  known 
by  far  of  all  our  poets." 

""What!  better  zan  Sakespeare,  Milton,  Bairon?  You 
much  surprass  me." 

"Better  known  and  better  loved  than  the  whole  lot. 
"Why,  his  poetry  is  known  by  heart  through  all  England  and 
America." 

' '  Merciful  Heaven  !  what  you  tell  me  !  ees  eet  possble  ! 
An  yet  he  is  not  known  here  efen  by  name.  It  would  please 
me  mooch,  my  Senator,  to  haire  }'ou  make  one  quotatione. 
Know  you  "Watt?  Tell  to  me  some  words  of  his  which  I 
may  remembaire." 

"  I  have  a  shocking  bad  memory." 

"  Bad  memora  !  O,  but  3'ou  remember  somethin,  zis  mos 
beautiful  charm  uait,  — you  haf  a  nobile  soul,  — you  mus  be 
affecta  by  beauty,  — by  ze  ideal.  Make  for  a  me  one  quota- 
tione." 

And  she  rested  her  little  hand  on  the  Senator's  arm,  and 
looked  up  imploringly  in  his  face. 

The  Senator  looked  foolish.  He  felt  even  more  so.  Here 
was  a  beautiful  woman,  by  act  and  look  showing  a  tender 
interest  in  him.  Perplexing,  — but  very  flattering,  after  all. 
So  he  replied,  — 

"  You  will  not  let  me  refuse  any  thing." 


A    SENATOR    ENTANGLED.  447 

"  Aha  !  you  are  vera  willin'  to  refuse.  It  is  difficulty  for 
me  to  excitaire  youar  regards.  You  are  fill  with  the  grands 
ideas.  But  come, — will  3'ou  spik  for  me  some  from  your 
favorit  Watt?" 

"  AVell,  if  you  wish  it  so  much,"  said  the  Senator,  kindly; 
and  he  hesitated. 

"  Ah,  —  I  do  wis  it  so  much  !  " 

"Ehem!" 

"  Begin,"  said  the  Countess.  "Behold  me.  I  listen.  I 
hear  ever}'  sin,  and  will  remembaire  it  forava." 

The  only  thing  that  the  Senator  could  think  of  was  a  verse 
which  had  been  running  in  his  head  for  the  last  few  days, 
its  measured  rhythm  keeping  time  with  every  occupation  : 

"  '  My  willing  soul  would  stay  — '  " 

"Stop  one  moment,"  said  the  Countess.  "I  weesh  to 
learn  it  from  you"  ;  and  she  looked  fondly  and  tenderly  up, 
but  instantly  dropped  her  eyes. 

"  '  Ma  willina  sol  wooda  sta  — '  " 

"  '  In  such  a  frame  as  this,'  "  prompted  the  Senator. 

"'Ecu  socha  framas  zees.'  Wait — 'Ma  willina  sol 
wooda  sta  in  socha  framas  zees.'  Ah,  appropriat !  but 
could  I  hope  zat  you  were  true  to  zose  lines,  my  Senator? 
Well?" 

"  '  And  sit  and  sing  herself  away,'  "  said  the  Senator,  in  a 
faltering  voice,  and  breaking  out  into  a  cold  perspiration  for 
fear  of  committing  himself  b}'  such  uncommonly  strong  lan- 
guage. 

"  '  Ansit  ansin  hassaf  awai,'"  repeated  the  Countess,  her 
face  lighting  up  with  a  sweetly  conscious  expression. 

The  Senator  paused. 

"Well?" 

"I — ehem!   I  forget." 

"Forget?     Impossble ! " 

"  I  do  really." 

"Ah  now!     Forget!  I  see  by  youar  face — you  desave 
Say  on." 


448  CHOICE    READINGS. 

The  Countess  again  gently  touched  his  arm  with  both  of 
her  little  hands,  and  held  it  as  though  she  would  clasp  it. 

"  Have  you  fear?     Ah,  cruel !  " 

The  Senator  turned  pale,  but,  finding  refusal  impossible, 
boldly  finished  : 

"  'To  everlasting  bliss  '  —  there  !  " 

"  '  To  affarlastin  blees  thar.'  Stop.  I  repeat  it  all :  '  Ma 
willina  sol  wooda  sta  in  socha  framas  zees,  ansit  ansin  has- 
saf  awai  to  affarlastin  blees  thar.'     Am  I  right?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  Senator  meekly. 

"  I  knew  you  war  a  poetic  sola,"  said  the  Couutess,  con- 
fidingly. "You  are  honesto  —  true  —  you  cannot  desave. 
When  you  spik  I  can  beliv  you.  Ah,  my  Senator !  an  you 
can  spik  zis  poetry  !  —  at  soch  a  taiiue !  I  nefare  knew 
befoare  zat  you  wos  so  impassione  !  —  an  you  air  so  artaful ! 
You  breeng  ze  confersazione  to  beauty  —  to  poatry  —  to  ze 
poet  Watt,  —  so  you  may  spik  verses  mos  impassione  !  Ah  ! 
what  do  you  mean?  Santissima  madra !  how  I  wish  you 
spik  Italian©. " 

The  Countess  drew  nearer  to  him,  but  her  approach  onl}' 
deepened  his  perplexit}'. 

"  How  that  poor  thing  does  love  me  !  "  .siglied  tlie  Senator. 
"Law  bless  it!  she  can't  help  it, — can't  help  it  nohow. 
She  is  a  goner  ;  and  what  can  I  do?  I'll  have  to  leave  Flor- 
ence." 

The  Countess  was  standing  close  beside  him  in  a  tender 
mood,  waiting  for  him  to  break  the  siU'uee.  How  could  he? 
He  had  been  uttering  words  which  sounded  to  her  like  love ; 
and  she  —  "a  widow  !  a  widow  !  a  widow  !  wretched  man 
that  I  am  !  " 

There  was  a  pause.  The  longer  it  lasted  the  more  awk- 
ward the  Senator  felt.  What  upon  earth  was  he  to  do  or 
say?  What  business  had  he  to  go  and  quote  poetry  to 
widows?  What  an  old  fool  he  nuist  be!  But  the  Countess 
was  very  far  from  feeling  awkward.  Assuming  an  elegant 
attitude,  she  looked  up,  iier  face  expressing  the  tenderest 
solicitude. 


CHRISTMAS-NIGHT    IN    THE    QUARTERS.  449 

"  What  ails  my  Senator?" 

"  Win-,  the  fact  is,  iiiariii,  —  I  feel  sad  —  at  leaving  Flor- 
ence. I  must  go  shortly.  My  wife  has  written  summoning 
me  home.     The  children  are  down  with  the  measles." 

O  base  fabrication  !  O  false  Senator  !  There  wasn't  a 
word  of  truth  in  that  remark.  You  spoke  so  because  you 
wished  La  Cica  to  know  that  you  had  a  wife  and  family. 
Yet  it  was  veiy  badly  done. 

La  Cica  changed  neither  her  attitude  nor  her  expression. 
Evidently  the  existence  of  his  wife  and  the  melanchol}'  situ- 
ation of  his  unfortunate  children  awakened  no  sympathy. 

"But,  my  Senator,  —  did  you  not  saj'  you  wooda  seeng 
yoursellef  away  to  affarlastin  blees  ?  " 

"  O  marm,  it  was  a  quotation,  —  only  a  quotation." 

But  at  this  critical  juncture  the  conversation  was  broken 
up  by  the  arrival  of  a  number  of  ladies  and  gentlemen. 


NEGRO. 
OHEISTMAS-NIGHT  IN  THE   QUARTERS. 

Irwin  Russell. 
Abridged  and  arranged  for  public  recitation. 

When  merry  Christmas-day  is  done. 
And  Christmas-night  is  just  begun  ; 
While  clouds  in  slow  procession  drift 
To  wish  the  moon-man  "Christmas  gift," 
Yet  linger  overhead,  to  know 
What  causes  all  the  stir  below  ; 
At  Uncle  Johnny  Booker's  ball 
The  darkies  hold  high  carnival. 
From  all  the  country-side  they  throng, 
With  laughter,  shouts,  and  scraps  of  song, 
Their  whole  deportment  plainl}-  showing 
That  to  ' '  the  frolic  "  they  are  going. 


450  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Some  take  the  path  with  shoes  in  hand, 
To  traverse  miidd}'  bottom-land  ; 
Aristocrats  their  steeds  bestride, — > 
Four  on  a  mule,  behold  them  ride  ! 
And  ten  great  oxen  draw  apace 
The  wagon  from  "  de  oder  place," 
With  forty  guests,  whose  conversation 
Betokens  glad  anticipation. 

In  this  our  age  of  printer's  ink, 
'Tis  books  that  show  us  how  to  think,  — 
The  rule  reversed,  and  set  at  nought. 
That  held  that  books  were  born  of  thought: 
We  form  our  minds  by  pedants'  rules ; 
And  all  we  know,  is  from  the  schools ; 
And  when  we  work,  or  when  we  play, 
We  do  it  in  an  ordered  way. 

Untrammel'd  thus,  the  simple  race  is. 
That  ' '  works  the  craps  "  on  cotton-places  ! 
Original  in  act  and  thought, 
Because  unlearned  and  untaught, 
Observe  them  at  their  Christmas  party. 
How  unrestrain'd  their  mirth,  how  hearty ! 
How  many  things  they  say  and  do 
That  never  would  occur  to  you  ! 
See  "  Brudder  Brown"  —  whose  saving  grace- 
Would  sanctify  a  quarter-race  — 
Out  on  the  crowded  floor  advance, 
To  "  beg  a  blessin'  on  dis  dance." 


()  Mahsr !  let  dis  gath'rin'  fin'  a  blessin'  in  yo'  sight ! 
■Don't  jedge  us  liard  for  what  we  does,  —  you  knows  its  Chrismus 

night ; 
An'  all  de  balance  ob  de  yeah,  we  does  as  right's  we  kin : 
Ef  dancin's  wrong,  O  Mahsr  I  let  de  time  excuse  de  sin  I 

We  labours  in  de  vineya'd,  workin'  hard,  an'  workin'  true ; 
Now,  shorely  you  won't  notus,  ef  we  eats  a  grape  or  two. 


CHRISTMAS-NIGUT    IN    THE    QUARTERS.  451 

An'  takes  a  leetle  holiday,  —  a  leetle  restin'-spell,  — 

Bekase,  nex'  week,  we'll  start  in  fresh,  an'  labour  twicet  as  well. 

Remember,  Mahsr,  —  min'  dis  now,  —  de  sinfulness  ob  sin 
Ts  pendin'  'pon  de  sperret  what  we  goes  an'  does  it  in : 
An'  in  a  righchis  frame  ob  min'  we's  gwine  to  dance  an'  sing; 
A-feelin'  like  King  David,  when  he  cut  de  pigeon-wing. 

It  seems  to  me,  —  indeed  it  do,  —  [  mebbe  mout  be  wrong,  — 
That  people  raly  ought  to  dance,  when  Chrismus  comes  along : 
Des  dance  bekase  dey's  happy,  like  de  birds  hops  in  de  trees; 
De  pine-top  fiddle  soundin'  to  de  blowin*  ob  de  breeze. 

We  has  no  ark  to  dance  afore,  like  Isrul's  prophet  king; 
We  has  no  harp  to  soun'  de  chords,  to  holp  us  out  to  sing ; 
But  cordin'  to  de  gif's  we  has  we  does  de  bes'  we  knows. 
An'  folks  don't  'spise  de  vi'let-flow'r  bekase  it  ain't  de  rose. 

You  bless  us,  please  sah,  eben  ef  we's  doin'  wrong  to-night ; 
Kase  den  we'll  need  de  blessin'  more'n  ef  we's  doin'  right ; 
An'  let  de  blessin'  stay  wid  us  untell  we  comes  to  die, 
An'  goes  to  keep  our  Chrismus  wid  dem  sheriffs  in  de  sky ! 

Yes,  tell  dem  preshis  anjuls  we's  a  gwine  to  jine  'em  soon : 
Our  voices  we's  a-trainin'  for  to  sing  de  glory  tune ; 
We's  ready  when  you  wants  us,  an*  it  aui't  no  matter  when ; 
O  jNIahsr  I  call  yo'  chillen  soon,  an'  take  'em  home !     Amen. 


The  reverend  man  is  scarcely  through, 
When  all  the  noise  begins  anew, 
And  with  such  force  assaults  the  ears, 
That  through  the  din  one  hardly  hears 
Old  Fiddling  Josey  "  sound  his  A,"  — 
Correct  the  pitch,  —  begin  to  pla}',  — 
Stop,  satisfied," — -then,  with  the  bow, 
Rap  out  the  signal  dancers  know : 


Git  yo* parchiers,  fast  limdtilion t 
Stomp  yo'  feet,  an'  raise  'em  high ; 

Tune  is,  "  O,  dat  water-million  ! 
Gwine  to  git  to  home  bime-bye." 


452  CHOICE    READINGS. 

.    S'lute  yo'  pardners  !  —  scrape  perlitely,  — 
Don't  be  bumpin'  gin  de  res', — 
Balance  all!  —  now,  step  out  rightly; 
AUuz  dance  yo'  lebbel  bes'. 

Fo'wa'dfoah!  —  whoop  up,  niggers! 

Back  ag'in !  —  don't  be  so  slow,  — 
Swing  yo'  cornahs !  —  min'  de  figgers : 

When  I  hollers,  den  yo'  go. 

Ladies  change !  —  shet  up  dat  talkin* : 
Do  3'o'  talkin'  arter  while,  — 

Right  an'  lef  !  —  don't  want  no  walkin',- 
Make  yo'  steps,  an'  show  yo'  style  I 

Hands  around!  —  hoi'  up  yo'  faces, 
Don't  be  lookin'  at  30'  feet ! 

Swing  yo'  pardners  to  yo'  places  ! 
Dat's  de  way,  —  dat's  hard  to  beat. 


And  so  the  "  set'*  proceeds,  its  length 

Determined  by  the  dancers'  strength ; 

And  all  agreed  to  yield  the  palm, 

For  gi'ace  and  skill,  to  "  Geoi^y  Sam," 

Who  stamps  so  hard,  and  leaps  so  high, 

"  Des  watch  him  !  "  is  the  wondering  cry, — 

"  De  nigger  mus'  be,  for  a  fac', 

Own  cousin  to  a  jumpin'-jack  !  " 

On,  on,  the  restless  fiddle  sounds,  — 

Still  chorus'd  by  the  curs  and  hounds,  — 

Dance  after  dance  succeeding  fast. 

Till  "  supper"  is  announced  at  last. 

That  scene,  —  but  why  attempt  to  show  it? 

The  most  inventive  modern  poet. 

In  fine  new  words  whose  hope  and  trust  is, 

Could  form  no  phrase  to  do  it  justice ! 

When  supper  ends,  —  that  is  not  soon,  — 

The  fiddler  strikes  the  same  old  tune ; 


THR    FIRST    BANJO.  453 

The  dancers  pound  the  floor  again, 
With  all  they  have  of  might  and  main ; 

The  night  is  spent ;  and,  as  the  day 
Throws  up  the  first  faint  flash  of  gray, 
The  guests  pursue  their  homeward  way ; 
And  through  the  field  beyond  the  gin, 
Just  as  the  stars  are  going  in, 
See  Santa  Clans  departing,  —  grieving,  — 
His  own  dear  Land  of  Cotton  leaving. 
His  work  is  done,  — he  fain  would  rest, 
Where  people  know  and  love  him  best ; 
He  pauses,  —  listens,  —  looks  about,  — 
But  go  he  must :  his  pass  is  out ; 
So,  coughing  down  the  rising  tears, 
He  climbs  the  fence  and  disappears. 
And  thus  observes  a  coloured  youth, 
(The  common  sentiment,  in  sooth,) 
"  O,  what  a  blessin'  'tw'u'd  ha'  been, 
Ef  Santy  had  been  born  a  twin  ! 
We'd  hab  two  Chrismuses  a  3'eah, 
Or  p'r'aps  one  brudder'd  settle  heah ! " 

THE  PIEST  BANJO. 

Irwin  Russell. 

Go'wAY,  fiddle  !  —  folks  is  tired  o'  heariii'  you  a-squawkin': 
Keep  silence  fur  yo'  betters,  —  don't  yo'  heah  de  banjo  talkin'? 
About  de  'possum's  tail  she's  goin  to  lecter,  —  ladies,  listen  !  — 
About  de  ha'r  what  isn't  dar,  an'  why  de  ha'r  is  missin'. 

"  Dar's  gwine  to  be  a  oberflow,"  said  Xoah,  lookin*  solemn,  — 
Fur  Noah  took  de  Herald,  an'  he  read  de  ribber  column, — 
An'  so  he  sot  his  hands  to  work  a-clarin'  timber-patches, 
An'  low'd  he's  gwine  to  build  a  boat  to  beat  the  steamah  Natchez 

or  Noah  kep'  a-nailin',  an'  a-chippin',  an'  a-sawin'; 

Aji'  all  de  wicked  neighbours  kep'  a-laughin,  an'  a-pshawin' ; 


454  CHOICE    READINGS. 

But  Noah  didn't  min'  'em,  —  knowin'  what  wuz  gwine  to  happen : 
An'  forty  days  an'  forty  nights  de  rain  it  kep'  a-droppin'. 

Now,  Noah  had  done  catch'd  a  lot  ob  eb'ry  sort  o'  beas'es, 
Ob  all  de  shows  a-trabbelin,  it  beat  'em  all  to  pieces ! 
He  had  a  Morgan  colt,  an'  sebral  head  o'  Jarsey  cattle,  — 
An'  drew  'em  board  de  ark  as  soon's  he  heer'd  de  thunder  rattle. 

Den  sech  anoder  fall  ob  rain  !  —  it  come  so  awful  hebby, 

De  ribber  riz  immejitly,  an'  busted  troo  de  lebbee ; 

De  people  all  wuz  drownded  out,  'cep'  Noah  an'  de  critters. 

An'  men  he'd  hired  to  work  de  boat,  —  an'  one  to  mix  de  bitters. 

De  ark  she  kep'  a-sailin',  an'  a-sailin',  an^  a-sailin'; 

De  lion  got  his  dander  up,  an'  like  to  bruk  de  palin',  — 

De  sarpints  hiss'd,  — de  painters  yell'd. — tell,  what  wid  all  de  fussin', 

You  c'u'dn't  hardly  heah  de  mate  a-bossin'  rouu'  an'  cussin'. 

Now,  Ham,  de  only  nigger  what  was  runnin'  on  de  packet, 
Got  lonesome  in  de  barber-shop,  an'  c'u'dn't  stan'  de  racket ; 
An'  so,  for  to  amuse  he-se'f,  he  steam'd  some  wood  an'  bent  it. 
An'  soon  he  had  a  banjo  made,  —  de  fust  dat  wuz  invented. 

He  wet  de  ledder,  stretch'd  it  on ;  made  bridge,  an'  screws,  an'  apron ; 

An*  fitted  in  a  proper  neck,  —  'twas  berry  long  an'  tap'rin' ; 

He  tuk  some  tin,  and  twisted  him  a  thimble  for  to  ring  it ; 

An'  den  de  mighty  question  riz.  How  wuz  he  gwine  to  string  it? 

De  possum  had  as  fine  a  tail  as  dis  dat  I's  a  singin' ; 
De  ha'rs  so  long,  an'  thick  an'  strong,  —  des  fit  for  banjo-stringin' ; 
Dat  nigger  shaved  'em  off  as  short  as  wash-day-dinner  graces ; 
An'  sorted  ob  'em  by  de  size,  frum  little  E's  to  basses. 

He  strung  her,  tuned  her,  struck  a  jig,  —  'twuz  "  Nebber  min'  de 

wedder  '* ; 
She  soun*  like  forty-lebben  bands  a-playing'  all  togedder ; 
Some  went  to  pattin' ;  some  to  dancin';  Noah  call'd  de  figgers; 
An  Ham  he  sot  an*  knock'd  de  tune,  de  happiest  ob  niggers ! 

Now,  sence  dat  time,  — it's  mighty  strange,  —  dere's  not  de  slightes 

showin' 
Ob  any  ha'r  at  all  upon  de  possum's  tail  a-growin' ; 
An'  curis,  too,  —  dat  nigger's  ways !    his  people  nebber  los'  'em,  — 
For  whar  you  finds  de  nigger,  — dar's  de  banjo  an'  de  'possum. 


UNCLE  dan'l's  apparition.  455 

UNCLE   DAN'L'S   APPARITION. 

Clemens  and  Warner. 

Whatever  the  lagging,  dragging  journey  from  Tennessee 
to  Missouri  may  have  been  to  the  rest  of  the  emigrants,  it 
was  a  wonder  and  delight  to  the  children,  a  world  of  enchant- 
ment ;  and  they  believed  it  to  be  peopled  with  the  mysterious 
dwarfs  and  giants  and  goblins  that  figured  in  the  tales  the 
negro  slaves  were  iu  the  habit  of  telling  them  nightly  by  the 
shuddering  light  of  the  kitchen  fire. 

Afthe  end  of  nearly  a  week  of  travel,  the  party  went  into 
camp  near  a  shabby  village  which  was  caving,  house  by 
house,  into  the  hungry  Mississippi.  The  river  astonished 
the  children  beyond  measure.  Its  mile-breadth  of  water 
seemed  an  ocean  to  them,  in  the  shadowy  twilight,  and  the 
vague  riband  of  trees  on  the  further  shore,  the  verge  of  a 
continent  which  surely  none  but  them  had  ever  seen  before. 

"Uncle  Dan'l,"  (coloured,)  aged  40;  his  wife,  "Aunt 
Jinny,"  aged  30  ;  "  Young  Miss"  Emily  Hawkins,  "  Young 
Mars"  Washington  Hawkins,  and  "Young  Mars"  Clay,  the 
new  member  of  the  family,  ranged  themselves  on  a  log,  after 
supper,  and  contemplated  the  marvellous  river  and  discussed 
it.  The  Moon  rose  and  sailed  aloft  through  a  maze  of 
shredded  cloud-wreaths  ;  the  sombre  river  just  perceptibly 
brightened  under  the  veiled  light ;  a  deep  silence  pervaded 
the  air,  and  was  emphasized,  at  intervals,  rather  than  broken, 
by  the  hooting  of  an  owl,  the  baj-ing  of  a  dog,  or  the  muffled 
crash  of  a  caving  bank  in  the  distance. 

The  little  company  assembled  on  the  log  were  all  children, 
(at  least  in  simplicitj'  and  broad  and  comprehensive  igno- 
rance,) and  the  remarks  they  made  about  the  river  were  iu 
keeping  with  their  character  ;  and  so  awed  were  they  b}'  the 
grandeur  and  the  solemnity  of  the  scene  before  them,  and  by 
their  belief  that  the  air  was  filled  with  invisible  spirits,  and 
that  the  faint  zephyrs  were  caused  by  their  passing  wings. 
that  all  their  talk  took  to  itself  a  tinge  of  the  supernatural, 


456  CHOICE    READINGSo 

and  their  voices  were  subdued  to  a  low  and  reverent  tone 
Suddenly  Uncle  Dan'l  exclaimed  : 

"  Chil'en,  dah's  sumfin  a-corain'  !  " 

All  crowded  close  together,  and  every  heart  beat  faster. 
Uncle  Dau'l  pouited  down  the  river  with  his  bony  finger. 

A  deep  coughing  sound  troubled  the  stillness,  away  toward 
a  wooded  cape  that  jutted  into  the  stream  a  mile  distant. 
All  in  an  instant  a  fierce  eye  of  fire  shot  out  from  behind  the 
cape,  and  sent  a  long,  brilliant  pathway  quivering  athwart  the 
dusky  water.  The  coughing  grew  louder  and  louder,  the  glar- 
ing eye  grew  larger  and  still  larger,  glared  wilder  and  still 
wilder.  A  huge  shape  developed  itself  out  of  the  gloom',  and 
from  its  tall  duplicate  horns  dense  volumes  of  smoke,  starred 
and  spangled  with  sparks,  poured  out  and  went  tumbling 
away  into  the  further  darkness.  Nearer  and  nearer  the  thing 
came,  till  its  long  sides  began  to  glow  with  spots  of  light 
which  mirrored  themselves  in  the  river,  and  attended  the 
monster  like  a  torchlight  procession. 

"  What  is  it?     O  !  what  is  it,  Uncle  Dan'l?" 

With  deep  solemnity  the  answer  came  : 

"  It's  de  Almighty  !     Git  down  on  yo'  knees  !  " 

It  was  not  necessary  to  say  it  twice.  They  were  all  kneel- 
ing in  a  moment.  And  then,  while  the  mysterious  coughing 
rose  stronger  and  stronger,  and  the  threatening  glare  reached 
further  and  wider,  the  negro's  voice  lifted  up  its  supplica- 
tions : 

"  O  Lord,  we's  been  mighty  wicked,  an'  we  knows  dat  we 
'zerve  to  go  to  de  bad  place,  but  good  Lord,  deah  Lord,  we 
ain't  ready  yit,  we  ain't  ready,  —  let  dese  po'  chil'en  hab  one 
mo'  chance,  jes'  one  mo'  chance.  Take  de  ole  niggah  if  you's 
got  to  hab  somebody.  Good  Lord,  good  deah  Lord,  we  don't 
know  whah  you's  a-gwine  to,  we  don't  know  who  you's  got 
3'o'  eye  on,  but  we  knows  by  de  way  you's  a-comin',  we  knows 
by  de  way  you's  a-tiltin'  along  in  3-0'  charyot  o'  fiah,  dat  some 
po'  sinner's  a-gwine  to  ketch  it.  But,  good  Lord,  dese  chil'en 
don't  'blong  heah,  dey's  fm  Obedstown,  whah  dey  don't  know 
nufSn,  an'  you  knows  yo'  own  sef,  dat  dey  ain't  'sponsible. 


UNCLE  dan'l's  apparition.  457 

All*,  deab  Lord,  good  Lord,  it  ain't  like  3'o'  mercy,  it  ain't 
like  yo'  pity,  it  ain't  like  30'  loug-sufferiu'  loviu'  kindness, 
for  to  take  dis  kind  o'  'vantage  o'  sicli  little  chil'en  as  dese  is, 
when  dey's  so  many  grown  folks  chuck  full  o'  cussedness  dat 
wants  roastin'  down  dah.  O  Lord,  spah  de  little  chil'en, 
don't  tar  de  little  chil'en  away  f'ra  dey  frens,  jes'  let  'em  off, 
jes'  dis  once,  and  take  it  out'n  de  ole  niggah.  Heah  I  is., 
Lord,  heah  I  is  !     De  ole  niggah's  read}'.  Lord,  de  ole  —  " 

The  flaming  and  churning  steamer  was  right  abreast  the 
party,  and  not  twent}'  steps  away.  The  awful  thunder  of  a 
raud-vaive  suddenly  burst  forth,  drowning  the  prayer,  and  as 
suddenly  Uncle  Dan'l  snatched  a  child  under  each  arm  and 
scoured  into  the  woods  with  the  rest  of  the  pack  at  his  heels. 
And  then,  ashamed  of  himself,  he  halted  in  the  deep  darkness 
and  shouted,  (but  rather  feebl}',) 

'•  Heah  I  is.  Lord,  heah  I  is  !" 

There  was  a  moment  of  throbbing  suspense,  and  then,  to 
the  surprise  and  comfort  of  the  part}',  it  was  plain  that  the 
august  presence  had  gone  by,  for  its  dreadful  noises  were 
receding.  Uncle  Dan'l  headed  a  cautious  reconnoissance  in 
the  direction  of  the  log.  Sure  enough  "  The  Lord  "  was  just 
turning  a  point  a  short  distance  up  the  river ;  and,  while  they 
looked,  the  lights  winked  out,  and  the  coughing  diminished  by 
degrees,  and  presently  ceased  altogether. 

•'  H'wsh  !  "Well,  now  dey's  some  folks  saj's  dey  ain't  no 
'ficiency  in  prah.  Dis  chile  would  like  to  know  whah  we'd  a 
ben  now  if  it  warn't  fo'  dat  prah?     Dat's  it.     Dat's  it !" 

"  Uncle  Dan'l,  do  3'ou  reckon  it  was  the  prayer  that  saved 
us  ?  "  said  Clay. 

"  Does  I  reckon?  Don't  I  know  it !  Whah  was  yo'  eyes? 
Warn't  de  Lord  jes'  a-comin'  chow  !  chow  !  chow  !  an'  a-goin' 
on  turrible  ;  an'  do  de  Lord  carry  on  dat  way  'dout  de^-'s 
sumfin  don't  suit  him?  An'  warn't  he  a-lookin'  right  at  dis 
gang  heah,  an'  warn't  he  jes'  a-reachin'  for 'em?  An'  d'  you 
spec'  he  gwine  to  let'em  off  'dout  somebody  ast  him  to  do  it? 
No  indeedy  ! " 

"Do  3'ou  reckon  ho  saw  us.  Uncle  Dan'l?'* 


458  CHOICE    READINGS. 

"  De  law  sakes,  chile,  didn't  I  see  him  a-lookin'  at  us?'* 

"  Did  you  feel  scared,  Uncle  Dan'l?" 

"  No  sah !  When  a  man  is  'gaged  in  prah,  he  ain't  'fraid 
o'  nuffin,  —  dey  can't  nuffln  tech  him." 

''  Well,  what  did  you  run  for?  " 

"Well,  I  —  I  —  Mars  Clay,  when  a  man  is  under  de  in- 
fluence ob  de  sperit,  he  dunno  what  he's  'bout,  —  no  sah ; 
dat  man  dunno  what  he's  'bout.  You  mout  take  an'  tah  de 
head  off  n  dat  man,  an'  he  wouldn't  scasely  fine  it  out.  Dah's 
de  Hebrew  chil'en  dat  went  frough  de  fiah ;  dey  was  burnt 
considable, — ob  course  dey  was;  but  dey  didn't  know 
nuffin  'bout  it,  —  heal  right  up  agin  :  if  dey'd  ben  gals  dey'd 
missed  dey  long  haah,  maybe,  but  dey  wouldn't  felt  de  burn." 

"  I  don't  know  but  what  they  were  girls.  I  think  they 
were." 

"  Now,  Mars  Clay,  you  knows  better'n  dat.  Sometimes 
a  body  can't  tell  whedder  you's  a-sayin'  what  you  means  or 
whedder  you's  a-sayin'  what  you  don't  mean,  'case  you  says 
'em  bofe  de  same  way." 

"  But  how  should  /  know  whether  they  were  boys  or 
girls?" 

"Goodness  sakes,  Mars  Clay,  don't  de  good  book  say? 
'Sides,  don't  it  call  'em  de  ^e-brew  chil'en?  If  dey  was 
gals  wouldn't  dey  be  de  she-brew  chil'en  ?  Some  people  dat 
kin  read  don't  'pear  to  take  no  notice  when  dey  do  read." 

"Well,  Uncle  Dan'l,  I  think  that  —  My!  here  comes 
another  one  up  the  river !     There  can't  be  two !  " 

"  We  gone  dis  time,  —  we  done  gone  dis  time,  sho' !  Dey 
ain't  two,  Mars  Clay,  —  dat's  de  same  one.  De  Lord  kir^ 
'pear  eberywhah  in  a  second.  Goodness,  how  de  fiah  an'  de 
smoke  do  belch  up !  Dat  mean  business,  honey.  He  comin' 
now  like  he  fo'got  sumfin.  Come  'long,  chil'en ;  time  you's 
gwine  to  roos'.  Go  'long  wid  3'ou,  —  ole  Uncle  Dan'l  gwine 
out  in  de  woods  to  rastle  in  prah,  —  de  ole  niggah  gwine  to 
do  what  he  kin  to  sabe  you  agin." 

He  did  go  to  the  woods  and  pray  ;  but  he  went  so  far  that  he 
doubted,  himself,  if  tlie  "  Lord"  heard  him  when  he  went  by 


CHARLIE   MACHREE.  459 

SCOTCH. 
OHAELIE  MAOHEEE. 

William  J.  Hoppin. 

Come  over,  come  over  the  river  to  me, 

If  ye  are  ray  laddie,  bold  Charlie  Machree ! 

Here's  Mary  McPherson  and  Susy  O'Linn, 

"Who  say  ye're  faint-hearted,  and  dare  not  plunge  in. 

But  the  dark  rolling  river,  though  deep  as  the  sea, 
I  know  cannot  scare  you,  nor  keep  you  from  me  ; 
For  stout  is  your  back  and  strong  is  your  arm, 
And  the  heart  in  your  bosom  is  faithful  and  warm. 

Come  over,  come  over  the  river  to  me, 
If  3'e  are  my  laddie,  bold  Charlie  Machree. 
I  see  him,  I  see  him :  he's  plunged  in  the  tide. 
His  strong  arms  are  dashing  the  big  waves  aside. 

O,  the  dark  rolling  water  shoots  swift  as  the  sea. 
But  blithe  is  the  glance  of  his  bonny  blue  e'e  ; 
His  cheeks  are  like  roses,  twa  buds  on  a  bough  : 
Who  says  ye're  faint-hearted,  my  brave  laddie,  now? 

Ho,  ho,  foaming  river,  ye  may  roar  as  ye.  go, 
But  ye  canna  bear  Charlie  to  the  dark  loch  below ! 
Come  over,  come  over  the  river  to  me. 
My  true-hearted  laddie,  my  Charlie  Machree  ! 

He's  sinking,  he's  sinking,  — O,  what  shall  I  do  ! 
Strike  out,  Charlie,  boldly,  ten  strokes  and  ye're  thro'. 
He's  sinking,  O  Heaven  !    Ne'er  fear,  man,  ne'er  fear ; 
I've  a  kiss  for  ye,  Charlie,  as  soon  as  ye're  here  ! 

He  rises,  I  see  him,  —  five  strokes,  Charlie,  mair, — 
He's  shaking  the  wet  from  his  bonny  brown  hair ; 
He  conquers  the  current,  he  gains  on  the  sea, — 
Ho,  where  is  the  swimmer  like  Charlie  Machree ! 


460  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Come  over  the  river,  but  once  come  to  me, 

And  I'll  love  ye  forever,  dear  Charlie  Machree. 

He's  sinking,  he's  gone,  —  O  God,  it  is  I, 

It  is  I,  who  have  kill'd  him,  —  help,  help  !  —  he  must  die 

Help,  help  !  — ah,  he  rises,  —  strike  out  and  ye're  free. 
Ho,  bravely  done,  Charlie,  once  more  now,  for  me ! 
Now  cling  to  the  rock,  now  give  me  30ur  hand, — 
Ye're  safe,  dearest  Charlie,  ye're  safe  on  the  land  ! 

Come  rest  on  my  bosom,  if  there  3'e  can  sleep  ; 
I  canna  speak  to  ye  ;  I  only  can  weep. 
Ye've  cross'd  the  wild  river,  ye've  risk'd  all  for  me, 
And  I'll  part  frae  ye  never,  dear  Charlie  Machree ! 


CUDDLE  DOON. 

Alexander  Anderson. 

The  bairn  ies  cuddle  doon  at  nicht 

Wi'  muckle  faucht  an'  din. 
"  O,  try  and  sleep,  ye  waukrife  rogues; 

Your  father's  comin'  in." 
The}'  never  heed  a  word  I  speak  : 

I  try  to  gie  a  froon  ; 
But  aye  I  hap  them  up,  an'  cry, 

"  O,  bairnies,  cuddle  doon  !  " 

Wee  Jamie  wi'  the  curley  heid  — 

He  aye  sleeps  next  the  wa'  — 
Bangs  up  an'  cries,  "  I  want  a  piece  "- 

The  rascal  starts  them  a'. 
I  rin  an'  fetch  them  pieces,  drinks, — 

Thej'  stop  a  wee  the  soun',  — 
Then  draw  the  blankets  up,  and  cry, 

"  Noo,  weanies,  cuddle  doon  !  " 

But,  ere  five  minutes  gang,  wee  Rab 
Cries  oot,  frae  'neatli  the  elaes. 


JOHN    ANDERSON,    MY    JO.  461 

'*  Mither,  mak'  Tam  gie  ower  at  ance ; 

He's  kittlin'  wi'  his  taes." 
The  miscliief  s  in  that  Tam  for  tricks : 

He'd  bother  half  the  toon  ; 
But  aye  I  hap  them  up,  and  cry, 

"•  O,  bairnies,  cuddle  doon  !  " 

At  length  they  hear  tlieir  father's  fit ; 

An',  as  he  steeks  the  door. 
They  turn  their  faces  to  the  wa', 

While  Tam  pretends  to  snore. 
"  Hae  a'  the  weans  been  gude?"  he  asks, 

As  he  pits  aflf  his  shoon. 
"  The  bairnies,  John,  are  in  their  beds, 

An'  lang  since  cuddled  doon." 

An',  just  afore  we  bed  ooi'sels. 

We  look  at  oor  wee  lambs  : 
Tam  has  his  airm  roun'  wee  Rab's  neck, 

An'  Rab  his  airm  roun'  Tarn's. 
I  lift  wee  Jamie  up  the  bed, 

An',  as  I  straik  each  croon, 
I  whisper,  till  my  heart  fills  up, 

"  O,  bairnies,  cuddle  doon  !  " 

The  bairnies  cuddle  doon  at  nicht 

Wi'  mirth  that's  dear  to  me  ; 
But  soon  the  big  warl's  cark  an  care 

Will  quaten  doon  their  glee  : 
Yet,  come  what  will  to  ilka  ane, 

Ma}-  He  who  sits  aboon 
Aye  "whisper,  though  tlieir  pows  be  bauld 

"  O  bairnies,  cuddle  doon  !  " 


JOHN  ANDEKSON,  MY  JO. 

Robert  Burns. 

John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John. 
When  we  were  first  acquent, 


462  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Your  locks  were  like  the  raven, 
Your  bonnie  brow  was  brent ; 

But  now  3'our  brow  is  beld,  John, 
Your  locks  are  like  the  snaw  ; 

But  blessings  on  your  frosty  pow, 
John  Anderson,  my  jo. 

John  Anderson,  my  jo.  John, 

We  clamb  the  hill  thegither ; 
And  mony  a  canty  day.  John, 

We've  had  wi'  ane  anither. 
Now  we  maun  totter  down,  John, 

But  hand  in  hand  we'll  go  ; 
And  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot, 

John  Anderson,  my  jo. 


JEANIE  MOEEISON. 

William  Mother\veii_ 

I've  wander'd  east,  I've  wander'd  west, 

Through  mony  a  weary  way  ; 
But  nevei',  never  can  forget 

The  luve  o'  life's  3'oung  day  ! 
The  fire  that's  blawn  on  Beltane  e'en 

May  weel  be  black  gin  Yule  ; 
But  blacker  fa'  awaits  the  heart 

Where  first  fond  luve  grows  cule. 

O  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

The  thochts  o'  bygane  years 
Still  fling  their  shadows  ower  my  path. 

And  blind  my  een  wi'  tears  : 
They  blind  my  een  wi'  saut,  saut  tears, 

And  sair  and  sick  I  pine, 
As  memory  idly  summons  up 

The  blithe  blinks  o'  langsyne. 


JEANIE    MORRISON.  463 

'Twas  theu  we  luvit  ilk  ither  weel, 

'Twas  then  we  twa  did  part ; 
Sweet  time  —  sad  time  !  twa  bairns  at  seiile, 

Twa  bairns,  and  but  ae  heart ! 
'Twas  then  we  sat  on  ae  Uiigh  bink, 

To  leir  ilk  ither  lear  ; 
And  tones  and  looks  and  smiles  were  shed, 

Remember'd  evermair. 

I  wonder,  Jeanie,  aften  yet, 

When  sitting  on  that  bink, 
Cheek  touchiu'  cheek,  loof  lock'd  in  loof, 

What  our  wee  heads  could  think. 
When  baith  bent  down  ower  ae  braid  page, 

Wi'  ae  bulk  on  our  knee, 
Th}'  lips  were  on  thy  lessons,  but 

My  lesson  was  in  thee. 

O,  mind  ye  how  we  hung  our  heads, 

How  cheeks  brent  red  wi'  shame. 
Whene'er  the  scule-weans,  laughin',  said. 

We  cleek'd  thegither  hame? 
And  mind  ye  o'  the  Saturda3's, 

(The  scule  then  skail't  at  noon,) 
When  we  ran  off  to  speel  the  braes,  — 

The  broomy  braes  o'  June  ? 

My  head  rins  round  and  round  about, 

My  heart  flows  like  a  sea. 
As  ane  b}'  ane  the  thochts  rush  back 

O'  scule-time,  and  o'  thee. 
O  mornin'  life  !     0  mornin'  luve  ! 

O  lichtsome  days  and  lang, 
When  hinnied  hopes  around  our  hearts 

Like  simmer  blossoms  sprang  ! 

O,  mind  ye,  luve,  how  aft  we  left 
Tlie  deavin',  dinsome  touu, 


4G4  CHOICE    READINGS. 

To  wander  b}'  the  green  burnside, 
And  hear  Its  waters  croon  ? 

The  simmer  leaves  hung  ower  our  heads. 
The  flowers  burst  round  our  feet, 

And  in  tlie  gloamiu'  o'  the  wood 
The  throssil  whusslit  sweet : 

The  throssil  whusslit  in  the  wood. 

The  burn  sang  to  the  trees, 
And  we,  with  Nature's  heart  in  tune, 

Concerted  harmonies ; 
And  on  the  knowe  abune  the  burn 

For  hours  thegither  sat 
In  the  silentness  o'  joy,  till  baith 

AVi'  very  gladness  grat. 

Ay,  ay,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Tears  trickled  down  3-our  cheek 
Like  dew-beads  on  a  rose,  3et  nana 

Had  ony  power  to  speak  ! 
That  was  a  time,  a  blessed  time, 

When  hearts  were  fresh  and  young, 
When  freely  gush'd  all  feelings  forth, 

Unsyllabled,  —  unsung  ! 

I  marvel,  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Gin  I  hae  been  to  thee 
As  closel}'  twined  wi'  earliest  throchts 

As  ye  hae  been  to  me  : 
O,  tell  me  gin  their  music  fills 

Thine  ear  as  it  does  mine  ! 
O,  say  gin  e'er  your  heart  grows  grit 

Wi'  dreamings  o'  langs^ne ? 

I've  wander'd  east,  I've  wander'd  west, 

I've  borne  a  wearj'  lot ; 
But  in  my  wanderings,  far  or  near, 

Ye  never  were  forgot : 


MAGDALENA,  OR  THE  SPANISH   DUEL.  465 

The  fount  that  first  burst  frae  this  heart 

Still  travels  on  its  way  ; 
And  channels  deeper,  as  it  rins, 

The  luve  o'  life's  3'oung  day. 

O  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Since  we  were  sinder'd  young 
I've  never  seen  your  face  nor  heard 

The  music  o'  your  tongue  ; 
But  I  could  hug  all  wretchedness. 

And  happy  could  I  dee, 
Did  I  but  ken  3'our  heart  still  dream'd 

O'  bygane  days  and  me  ! 


SPANISH. 

J.  F.  Waller. 

MAGDALENA,  OR  THE  SPANISH  DUEL. 

Near  the  city  of  Sevilla, 
Years  and  years  ago, 

Dwelt  a  lady  in  a  villa 
Years  and  years  ago  ; 
And  her  hair  was  black  as  night, 
And  her  eyes  were  starry  bright ; 
Olives  on  her  brow  were  blooming, 
Roses  red  her  lips  perfuming, 
And  her  step  was  light  and  airy 
As  the  tripping  of  a  fairy  : 
When  she  spoke,  you  thought,  each  minute, 
'Twas  the  trilling  of  a  linnet ; 
When  she  sang,  you  heard  a  gush 
Of  full-voiced  sweetness  like  a  thrush; 
And  she  struck  from  the  guitar 
Ringing  music,  sweeter  far 
Than  the  morning  breezes  make 
Through  the  lime  trees  when  they  shake,  — 
Than  the  ocean  murmuring  o'er 


466  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Pebbles  on  the  foamy  shore. 
Orphan'd  both  of  sire  and  mother, 
Dwelt  she  in  that  lonely  villa ; 
Absent  now  her  guardian  brother 

On  a  mission  from  Sevilla. 
Skills  it  little  now  the  telling 

How  1  woo'd  that  maiden  fair, 
Track'd  her  to  her  lonely  dwelUng, 
And  obtain'd  an  entrance  there. 
Ah  !  that  lady  of  the  villa,  — 

And  I  loved  her  so, 
Near  the  city  of  Sevilla, 
Years  and  3'ears  ago. 
Ay  de  mi !  —  Like  echoes  falling 

Sweet  and  sad  and  low. 
Voices  come  at  night,  recalling 
Years  and  years  ago. 

'Twas  an  autumn  eve  ;  the  splendour 

Of  the  day  was  gone, 
And  the  twilight,  soft  and  tender, 

Stole  so  gently  on 
That  the  eye  could  scarce  discover 
How  the  shadows,  spreading  over, 

Like  a  vale  of  silver  gray, 
Toned  the  golden  clouds,  sun-painted. 
Till  they  paled,  and  paled,  and  fainted 

From  the  face  of  heaven  away  : 
And  a  dim  light,  rising  slowly. 

O'er  the  welkin  spread, 
Till  the  blue  sky,  calm  and  holy, 

Gleam'd  above  our  head  ; 
And  the  thin  Moon,  newly  nascent. 

Shone  in  glory  meek  and  sweet, 
As  Murillo  paints  lier  crescent 

Underneath  Madonna's  feet. 
And  we  sat  outside  the  villa 


MAGPALENA,    OR    THK    SPANISH    DUEL. 

Where  the  waters  flow 

Down  to  the  city  of  Sevilla,  — 

Years  and  years  ago. 

Seated  half  within  a  bower, 

Where  the  languid  evening  breeze 
Shook  out  odours  in  a  shower 

From  oranges  and  citron-trees, 

Sang  she  from  a  romancero, 

How  a  Moorish  chieftain  bold 

Fought  a  Spanish  caballero 
By  Seviila's  walls  of  old ; 

How  they  battled  for  a  lady, 

Fairest  of  the  maids  of  Spain,  — - 

How  the  Christian's  lance,  so  steady. 

Pierced  the  Moslem  through  the  bram. 

Then  she  ceased:  her  black  eyes,  moving, 
Flash'd,  as  ask'd  she  with  a  smile,  — 

"  Say,  are  maids  as  fair  and  loving,  — 
Men  as  faithful,  in  your  isle?" 

-  British  maids,"  I  said,  "  are  ever 
Counted  fairest  of  the  fair ; 

Like  the  swans  on  yonder  river 
Moving  with  a  stately  air : 

Woo'd  not  quickly,  won  not  lightly, 
But,  when  won,  forever  true  ; 

Trial  draws  the  bond  more  tightly,  ^^ 
Time  can  ne'er  the  knot  undo." 

''  And  the  men?  "  -  "  Ah !  dearest  lady, 
Ave  —  quien  sabe  ?  who  can  say  ? 

To  make  love  they're  ever  ready, 

When  they  can  and  where  they  may 


467 


468  CIIOIOK    UKADINGS. 

Fix'd  as  waves,  as  breezes  steady 

Tn  a  changeful  April  day,  — 
Como  hrisas  como  rios, 

No  se  fiabe,  sahe  Dios." 

"  Are  they  faithful  ?  "  —  "  Ah  !  quien  sabe  ? 

Who  can  answer  that  they  are  ? 
"While  we  may  we  should  be  happy." 

Then  I  took  up  her  guitar, 
And  I  sang,  in  sportive  strain, 
This  song  to  an  old  air  of  Spain  : 

Qui  EN  Sake. 
"  The  breeze  of  the  evening  that  cools  the  hot  air. 
That  kisses  the  orange  and  shakes  out  thy  hair, 
Is  its  freshness  less  welcome,  less  sweet  its  i)ei'finne, 
That  you  know  not  the  region  from  which  it  is  come  ? 
Whence  the  wind  blows,  where  the  wind  goes, 
Hither  and  thither  and  whither  —  who  knows? 

Who  knows? 
Hither  and  thither,  — but  whither —  wlio  knows? 

The  river  forever  glides  singing  along, 

The  rose  on  the  bank  bends  down  to  its  song  ; 

And  the  flower,  as  it  listens,  unconsciously  dips. 

Till  the  rising  xvavG  glistens  and  kisses  its  lips  : 

But  why  the  wave  rises  and  kisses  the  rose. 

And  why  the  rose  stoops  for  those  kisses  —  who  knows? 

Who  knows? 
And  away  flows  the  river,  — but  whitlier — who  knows? 

Let  me  be  the  breeze,  love,  that  wanders  along. 
The  river  that  ever  rejoices  in  song  ; 
lie  thou  to  my  fancy  the  orange  in  bloom. 
The  rose  by  the  river  that  gives  its  perfume. 
Would  the  fruit  be  so  golden,  so  fragrant  the  rose, 
If  no  breeze  and  no  wave  were  to  kiss  them? 
Who  knpw^? 


MAGDALENA,    OR   THE    SPANISH    DUEL,  469 

Who  knows? 
If  no  breeze  and  no  wave  were  to  kiss  them  ? 
Who  knows?  " 

As  I  sang,  the  lad^'  listen'd, 

Silent  save  one  gentle  sigh  ; 
When  I  ceased,  a  tear-drop  glisten'd 

On  the  dark  fringe  of  her  eye. 

Up  I  sprang.     What  words  were  utter'd 

Bootless  now  to  think  or  tell,  — 
Tongues  speak  wild  when  hearts  are  flutter'd 

By  the  mighty  master-spell. 

"  Magdalena,  dearest,  hear  me," 

Sigh'd  I,  as  I  seized  her  hand ;  — 

"  Hola  !   Seiior,"  very  near  me, 

Cries  a  voice  of  stern  command. 

And  a  stalwart  caballero 

Comes  upon  me  with  a  stride, 
On  his  head  a  slouch'd  sombrero, 

A  toledo  by  his  side. 

*'  Will  your  Worship  have  the  goodness 
To  release  that  lady's  hand  ?  "  — 

"  Seiior,"  I  replied,  "  this  rudeness 
I  am  not  prepared  to  stand." 

Then  the  Spanish  caballero 

Bow'd  with  haughty  courtesy, 
Solemn  as  a  tragic  hero, 

And  announced  himself  to  me : 

"  Senor,  I  am  Don  Camillo 
Guzman  Miguel  Pedrillo 
De  Xymenos  y  Ribera 
y  Santallos  y  Herrera 

Y  de  Rivas  y  Mendoza 

Y  Qnintana  y  de  Rosa 

Y  Zorilla  y  "  —  ''No  more,  sir ; 


470  CHOICE    READINGSo 

'Tis  as  good  as  twenty  score,  sir," 
Said  I  to  him,  with  a  frown : 

"  Mucha  bulla  para  nada, 

No  palabras,  draw  your  'spada ; 

If  you're  up  for  a  duello 

You  will  find  I'm  just  your  fellow,  — 
Senior,  I  am  Peter  Brown  !  " 

By  the  river's  bank  that  night, 

Foot  to  foot  in  strife, 
Fought  we  in  the  dubious  light 

A  fight  of  death  or  life. 
Don  Camillo  slash'd  my  shoulder ; 
With  the  pain  I  grew  the  bolder. 

Close  and  closer  still  I  press'd : 
Fortune  favour'd  rae  at  last ; 
I  broke  his  guard,  my  weapon  pass'd  5 

Through  the  caballero's  breast  ; 
The  man  of  many  names  went  down, 
Pierced  by  the  sword  of  Peter  Brown ! 

Kneeling  down,  I  raised  his  head : 

The  caballero  faintlj*  said, 

"  Sefior  Ingles,  fly  from  Spain 

With  all  speed,  for  you  have  slain 

A  Spanish  noble,  Don  Camillo 

Guzman  Miguel  Pedrillo 

De  Xymenes  y  Ribera 

Y  Santallos  y  Herrera 

Y  de  Rivas  y  Mendoza 

Y  Quintana  y  de  Rosa 

Y  Zorilla  y  "  —  He  swoon'd 
With  the  bleeding  from  his  wound. 
If  he  be  living  still,  or  dead, 

I  never  knew,  I  ne'er  shall  know. 
That  night  from  Spain  in  haste  I  fled, 
Years  and  years  ago. 


THE    BELLS.  471 


XI. 
ONOMATOPOETIC. 


THE  BELLS. 

Edgar  A.  Poe. 

Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells,  —  silver  l)ells  ; 
What  a  world  of  merriment  their  melody  foretells  ! 
How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle, 

In  the  icy  air  of  night ! 
While  the  stars,  that  oversprinkle 
All  the  heavens,  seem  to  twinkle 

With  a  crystalline  delight ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time. 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme. 
To  the  tintinnabulation  that  so  musically  wells 
From  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells,  — 
From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  the  bells. 

Hear  the  mellow  wedding-bells,  —  golden  bells  ! 
What  a  world  of  happiness  their  harmony  foretells  ! 
Through  the  balmy  air  of  night 
How  they  ring  out  their  delight ! 
From  the  molten-golden  notes. 

And  all  in  tune, 
What  a  liquid  ditty  floats 
To  the  turtle-dove  that  listens,  while  she  gloats 
On  the  moon ! 
O,  from  out  the  sounding  cells. 
What  a  gush  of  euphony  voluminously  wells ! 
How  it  swells  !    how  it  dwells 


472  CHOICE   READINGS. 

On  the  Future  !  how  it  tells 
Of  the  rapture  that  impels 
To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells,  — 
To  the  rhyming  and  the  chiming  of  the  bells ! 

Hear  the  loud  alarum  bells,  —  brazen  bells ! 
What  a  tale  of  terror,  now,  their  turbulency  tells ! 
In  the  startled  ear  of  night 
How  they  scream  out  their  affright ! 
Too  much  horrified  to  speak, 
They  can  only  shriek,  shriek. 
Out  of  tune. 
In  a  clamourous  appealing  to  the  mercy  of  the  fire. 
In  a  mad  expostulation  with  the  deaf  and  frantic  fire 
Leaping  higher,  higher,  higher. 
With  a  desperate  desire, 
And  a  resolute  endeavour, 
Now  —  now  to  sit  or  never, 
By  the  side  of  the  pale-faced  Moon. 
O,  the  bells,  bells,  bells  ! 
What  a  tale  their  terror  tells 
Of  despair  ! 
How  they  clang,  and  clash,  and  roar ! 
What  a  horror  they  outpour 
On  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air ! 

Yet  the  ear,  it  fully  knows. 
By  the  twanging  and  the  clanging. 

How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows ; 
Yet  the  ear  distinctly-  tells, 
In  the  jangling  and  the  wrangling. 
How  the  danger  sinks  and  swells. 
By  the  sinking  or  the  swelling  in  the  anger  of  the  bells,  - 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells,  — 
In  the  clamour  and  the  clangour  of  the  bells  ! 

Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells,  —  iron  bells  ! 

What  a  world  of  solemn  thought  their  monody  compels ! 


BUGLE    SONG.  473 

In  the  silence  of  the  night, 
How  we  shiver  with  affright 
At  the  melanchol}^  menace  of  their  tone ! 
For  ever}'  sound  that  floats 
From  the  rust  within  their  throats 

Is  a  groan. 
And  the  people,  —  ah,  the  people,  — 
They  that  dwell  up  in  the  steeple. 

All  alone. 
And  who  tolling,  tolling,  tolling, 

In  that  muffled  monotone, 
Feel  a  glory  in  so  rolling 

On  the  human  heart  a  stone  ! 
The}'  are  neither  man  nor  woman,  — 
They  are  neither  brute  nor  human,  — 

They  are  Ghouls : 
And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls ; 
And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls,  rolls, 

A  paean  from  the  bells  ! 
And  his  merry  bosom  swells 

With  the  psean  of  the  bells  ! 
And  he  dances  and  he  yells  ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time. 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  tolling  of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells,  — 
To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of  the  bells. 


a^^Jc 


BUGLE   SONG. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 

The  splendour  falls  on  castle  walls 
And  snowy  summits  old  in  story  ; 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 
And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying : 
Blow,  bugle  ;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 


474  CHOICR    READINGS. 

O  hark,  O  hear  !  how  thin  and  clear, 

And  thinner,  clearer,  further  going  ; 
O  sweet  and  far,  from  cliff  and  scar. 
The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing  ! 
Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  reph'ing  : 
Blow,  bugle ;  answer  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

O  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky, 

The}'  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river ; 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 
And  grow  forever  and  forever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  tlie  wild  echoes  flying. 
And  answer  echoes,  answer,  dying,  d3'ing,  dying. 

THE   OHAKOOAL  MAN. 

J.  T.  Trowbridge. 

Though  rudel}'  blows  the  wintry  blast, 
And  sifting  snows  fall  white  and  fast, 
Mark  Hale}'  drives  along  the  street, 
Perch'd  high  upon  his  wagon  seat : 
His  sombre  face  the  storm  defies. 
And  thus  from  morn  till  eve  he  cries,  — 

"Charco'  !  charco' !  " 
While  echo  faint  and  far  replies,  — 

"Hark,  O!  hark,  O!" 
"  Charco'  !"  —  "  Hark,  O  !  "  —  Such  cheery  sounds 
Attend  him  on  his  daily  rounds. 

The  dust  begrimes  his  ancient  hat ; 
His  coat  is  darker  far  than  that : 
'Tis  odd  to  see  his  sooty  form 
All  speckled  with  the  feathery  storm  ; 
Yet  in  his  honest  bosom  lies 
Nor  spot  nor  speck,  —  though  still  he  cries,  — 
"  Charco' !  charco' !  " 


THE    CHARCOAL    MAN.  475 

And  many  a,  roguish  lad  replies,  — 

"Ark,  ho!  ark,  ho  !  " 
"  Charco' !  "  —  "  Ark,  ho  !  "  —  Such  various  sounds 
Announce  Mark  Haley's  morning  rounds. 

Thus  all  the  cold  and  wintry  day 
He  labours  much  for  little  pa}- ; 
Yet  feels  no  less  of  happiness 
Than  many  a  richer  man,  I  guess, 
When  through  the  shades  of  eve  he  spies 
The  light  of  his  own  home,  and  cries,  — 

"Charco'!  charco'!" 
And  Martha  from  the  door  replies,  — 

"Mark,  ho!  Mark,  ho!  " 
"  Charco' !  "  —  "  Mark,  ho  !  —  Such  joy  abounds 
When  he  has  closed  his  daily  rounds. 

The  hearth  is  warm,  the  fire  is  bright ; 

And,  while  his  hand,  wash'd  clean  and  white, 

Holds  Martha's  tender  hand  once  more, 

His  glowing  face  bends  fondly  o'er 

The  crib  wherein  his  darling  lies  ; 

And  in  a  coaxing  tone  he  cries, 

"  Charco' !  charco'  !  " 
And  baby  with  a  laugh  replies,  — 

"Ah,  go!  ah,  go!  " 
"Charco' !  "  — "  Ah,  go  !  "  —  while  at  the  sounds 
The  mother's  heart  with  gladness  bounds. 

Then  honour'd  be  the  charcoal  man  ! 
Though  dusky  as  an  African, 
'Tis  not  for  you,  that  chance  to  be 
A  little  better  clad  than  he. 
His  honest  manhood  to  despise. 
Although  from  morn  till  eve  he  cries,  — 
"Charco'!  charco' 1  " 


476  CHOICE    READINGS. 

While  mocking  echo  still  replies,  — 

"Hark,  O!  hark,  O!" 
"  Charco' !  "  —  "  Hark,  0  !  "  —  Long  may  the  sounds 
Proclaim  Mark  Haley's  daily  rounds  ! 


OEEEDS   OP  THE  BELLS. 

George  W.  Bungay. 

How  sweet  the  chime  of  Sabbath  bells  I 
Each  one  its  creed  in  music  tells, 
In  tones  that  float  upon  the  air, 
As  soft  as  song,  and  pure  as  prayer ; 
And  I  will  put  in  simple  rh3'me 
The  language  of  the  golden  chime  : 
My  happy  heart  with  rapture  swells 
Responsive  to  the  bells  —  sweet  bells. 

"  In  deeds  of  love  excel  —  excel," 
Chimed  out  from  ivied  towers  a  bell ; 
"  This  is  the  Church  not  built  on  sands, 
Emblem  of  one  not  built  with  hands : 
Its  forms  and  sacred  rites  revere  ; 
Come  worship  here  —  come  worship  here ; 
Its  rituals  and  faith  excel  —  excel," 
Chimed  out  th'  Episcopalian  bell. 

"  O,  heed  the  ancient  landmarks  well," 
In  solemn  tones  exclaim'd  a  bell ; 
"  No  progress  made  by  mortal  man 
Can  change  the  just,  eternal  plan  : 
With  God  there  can  be  nothing  new ; 
Ignore  the  false,  embrace  the  true 
While  all  is  well  —  is  well  —  is  well," 
Peal'd  out  the  good  old  Dutch  Church  bell 

'^  O  swell,  ye  purifying  waters,  swell," 
In  mellow  tones  rang  out  a  bell ; 


CREEDS  OF  THE  BELLS.  477 

"  Though  faith  aloue  in  Christ  can  save, 
Man  must  be  plunged  beneath  the  wave, 
To  show  the  world  unfaltering  faith 
In  what  the  sacred  Scripture  saith  : 
O  swell,  ye  rising  waters,  swell," 
Peal'd  out  the  clear-toned  Baptist  bell. 

"  Not  faith  alone,  but  works  as  well. 
Must  test  tlie  soul,"  said  a  soft  bell ; 
"  Come  here,  and  cast  aside  your  load, 
And  work  your  way  along  the  road. 
With  faith  in  God,  and  faith  in  man, 
And  hope  in  Christ,  where  hope  began  : 
Do  well  —  do  well  —  do  well  —  do  well," 
Peal'd  foi'th  the  Unitarian  bell. 

"Farewell!  farewell!  base  world,  farewell," 
In  gloomy  tones  exclaim'd  a  bell ; 
"  Life  is  a  boon  to  mortals  given, 
To  fit  the  soul  for  bliss  in  Heaven  : 
Do  not  invoke  the  avenging  rod  ; 
Come  here,  and  learn  the  way  to  God : 
Say  to  the  world  farewell  —  farewell !  " 
Peal'd  out  the  Presbyterian  bell. 

"  In  after  life  there  is  no  Hell !  " 
In  raptures  rang  a  cheerful  bell ; 
"  Look  up  to  Heaven  this  holy  da}'. 
Where  angels  wait  to  lead  the  way  ; 
There  are  no  fires,  no  fiends,  to  blight 
The  future  life  ;  be  just,  do  right : 
No  Hell  !  no  Hell !  no  Hell !  no  Hell !  " 
Rang  out  the  Universalist  bell. 

"  To  all  the  truth  we  tell  —  we  tell," 
Shouted  in  ecstasies  a  bell ; 
"  Come  all  ye  weai'y  wanderers,  see  ! 
Our  Lord  has  made  salvation  free : 


478  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Repent !  believe  !  have  faith  !  and  then 
Be  saved,  and  praise  the  Lord.     Amen. 
Salvation's  free  we  tell  —  we  tell," 
Shouted  the  Methodistic  bell. 


EVENING   AT   THE   FAEM. 

J.  T.  Trowbridge. 

Over  the  hill  the  f arm-boj-  goes  : 
His  shadow  lengthens  along  the  land, 
A  giant  staff  in  giant  hand  ; 
In  the  poplar-tree  above  the  spring 
The  katydid  begins  to  sing  ; 

The  earl}'  dews  are  falling : 
Into  the  stone-heap  darts  the  mink, 
The  swallows  skim  the  river's  brink. 
And  home  to  the  woodland  fly  the  crows, 
When  over  the  hill  the  farm-boy  goes, 

Cheeril}'  calling,  — 

"  Co',  boss  !  co',  boss  !  co'  !  co'  !  co' !" 
Further,  further  over  the  hill. 
Faintly  calling,  calling  still,  — 

"  Co',  boss  !  co',  boss  !  co' !  co' !" 

Into  the  yard  the  farmer  goes. 

With  grateful  heart,  at  the  close  of  da}' : 

Harness  and  chain  are  hung  awaj- ; 

In  the  wagon-shed  stand  yoke  and  plough  ; 

The  straw's  in  the  stack,  the  hay  in  the  mow ; 

The  cooling  dews  are  falling  : 
The  friendly  sheep  his  welcome  bleat, 
The  pigs  come  grunting  to  his  feet. 
The  whinnying  mare  her  master  knows, 
When  into  the  yard  the  farmer  goes. 

His  cattle  calling,  — 

"  Co',  boss  !  co',  boss  !  co' !  co' !  co' !  " 


EVENING    AT    THE    FARM. 


479 


While  still  the  cow-boy,  far  away, 
Goes  seeking  those  that  have  gone  astray,  — 
"Co',  boss  !  co',  boss  !  eo' !  co' ! " 

Now  to  her  task  the  milkmaid  goes  ; 

The  cattle  come  crowding  through  the  gate, 

Lowing,  pushing,  little  and  great ; 

About  the  trough,  by  the  farm-yard  pump, 

The  frolicsome  yearlings  frisk  and  jump, 

While  the  pleasant  dews  are  falling : 
The  new  milch  heifer  is  quick  and  shy, 
But  the  old  cow  waits  with  tranquil  eye  ; 
And  the  white  stream  into  the  bright  pail  flows, 
When  to  her  task  the  milkmaid  goes, 

Soothingly  calling,  — 

"  So,  boss  !  so,  boss  !  so  !  so  !  so  !  " 
The  cheerful  milkmaid  takes  her  stool, 
And  sits  and  milks  in  the  twilight  cool, 

Saying,  "  So,  so,  boss  !  so  !  so  !  " 

To  supper  at  last  the  farmer  goes  : 
The  apples  are  pared,  the  paper  read. 
The  stories  are  told,  then  all  to  bed : 
Without,  the  cricket's  ceaseless  song 
Makes  shrill  the  silence  all  night  long  ; 

The  heavy  dews  are  falling : 
The  housewife's  hand  has  turn'd  the  lock  ; 
Drowsily  ticks  the  kitchen  clock  ; 
The  household  sinks  to  deep  repose  ; 
But  still  in  sleep  the  farm-boy  goes 

Singing,  calling  — 

"  Co',  boss  !  co',  boss  !  co' !  co' !  co' !  " 
And  oft  the  milkmaid,  in  her  dreams. 
Drums  in  the  pail  with  the  flashing  streams, 
Murmuring,  "  So,  boss  !  so  !  " 


480  CHOICE    READINGS. 

THE  LAST  HYMN. 

Mrs.  M.  Farmingham. 

The  Sabbath  day  was  ending  in  a  village  by  the  sea, 

The  utter'd  benediction  touch'd  the  people  tenderly  ; 

And  they  rose  to  face  the  sunset  in  the  glowing,  lighted  west, 

And  then  hasten'd  to  their  dwellings  for  God's  blessed  boon  of  rest. 

But  they  look'd  across  the  waters,  and  a  storm  was  raging  there ; 

A  fierce  spirit  moved  about  them,  —  the  wild  spirit  of  the  air  ; 

And  it  lash'd,  and  shook,  and  tore  them,  till  they  thunder'd,  groan'd, 

and  boom'd : 
And,  alas  !  for  any  vessel  in  their  yawning  gulfs  entomb'd. 
Very  anxious  were  the  people  on  that  rocky  coast  of  Wales, 
Lest  the  dawns  of  coming  morrows  should  be  telling  awful  tales. 
When  the  sea  had  spent  its  passion,  and  should  cast  upon  the  shore 
Bits  of  wreck,  and  swollen  victims,  as  it  had  done  heretofore. 
With  the  rough  winds  blowing  round  her,  a  brave  woman  strain'd 

her  eyes, 
As  she  saw  along  the  billows  a  large  vessel  fall  and  rise. 
O  !  it  did  not  need  a  prophet  to  tell  what  the  end  must  be, 
For  no  ship  could  ride  in  safety  near  that  shore  on  such  a  sea. 

Then  the  pitying  people  hurried  from  their  homes,  and  throng'd 

the  beach. 
O,  for  power  to  cross  the  waters,  and  the  perishing  to  reacli ! 
Helpless  hands  were  wrung  in  terror,  tender  hearts  grew  cold  with 

dread, 
And  the  ship  urged  by  the  tempest  to  the  fatal  rock-shore  sped. 
She  has  parted  in  the  middle !     O,  the  half  of  her  goes  down  ! 
God  have  mercy !     Is  His  Heaven  far  to  seek,  for  those  who  drown  ? 
Lo !  when  next  the  white,  shock'd  faces  look'd  with  terror  on  the 

sea, 
Only  one  last  clinging  figure  on  a  spar  was  seen  to  be. 
Nearer  to  the  trembling  watchers  came  tlie  wreck  toss'd  by  the 

wave. 
And  the  man  still  clung  and  floated,  though  no  power  on  Earth 

could  save. 
"  Could  we  send  him  a  short  message  ?     Here's  a  trumpet,  shout 

away  1  " 
'Twas  the  preacher's  hand  that  took  it,  and  he  wonder'd  what  to 

say: 


THE    LITTLE    TELLTALE.  481 

Any  memory  of  his  sermon?     Firstly?     Secondly?     Ah,  no  ! 

There  was  but  one  thing  to  utter  in  that  awful  hour  of  woe. 

So  he  shouted  through  the  trumpet,  "  Look  to  Jesus !     Can  you 

hear  ?  " 
And  "  Ay,  ay,  sir  1  "  rang  the  answer  o'er  the  waters,  faint  and  clear. 

Then  they  listen 'd  :  "  He  is  singing,  '  Jesus,  lover  of  my  soul,'  " 
And  the  winds  bi'ought  back  the  echo,  "  While  the  nearer  waters 

roll." 
Strange  indeed  it  was  to  hear  him,  "  Till  the  storm  of  life  is  past," 
Singing  bravely  o'er  the  waters,  "  O,  receive  my  soul  at  last." 
He  could  have  no  other  refuge,  "  Hangs  my  helpless  soul  on  Thee." 
"  Leave,  O  I  leave  me  not,"  —  the  singer  dropp'd  at  last  into  the  sea. 
And  the  watchers  looking  homeward,  through  their  eyes  by  tears 

made  dim, 
Said,  "  He  pass'd  to  be  with  Jesus  in  the  singing  of  that  hymn." 


o>&<c 


THE   LITTLE   TELLTALE. 

Once,  on  a  golden  afternoon, 

With  radiant  faces  and  hearts  in  tune, 

Two  fond  lovers  in  dreaming  mood 

Threaded  a  rural  solitude. 
Wholly  happy,  they  only  knew 
That  the  earth  was  bright  and  the  sky  was  blue  ; 

That  light  and  beauty  and  joy  and  song 

Charm'd  the  way  as  they  pass'd  along : 
The  air  was  fragrant  wdth  woodland  scents  ; 
The  squirrel  frisk'd  on  the  roadside  fence ; 

And  hovering  near  them,  "  chee,  chee,  chink?" 

Queried  the  curious  bobolink, 
Pausing  and  peering  with  sidelong  head, 
As  saucily  questioning  all  they  said  ; 

While  the  ox-eye  danced  on  its  slender  stem. 

And  all  glad  Nature  rejoiced  with  them. 
Over  the  odorous  fields  were  strown 
Wilting  windrows  of  grass  new-mown, 


482  CHOICE    READINGS. 

And  rosy  billows  of  clover  bloom 

Surged  in  the  sunshine  and  breathed  perfume. 

Swinging  low  on  a  slender  limb, 

The  sparrow  warbled  his  wedding  hymn  ; 

And,  balancing  on  a  blackberry-brier, 
The  bobolink  sang  with  his  heart  on  fire, — 

"  Chink  !  If  you  wish  to  kiss  her,  do  ! 

Do  it,  do  it  I  You  coward,  you  ! 

Kiss  her  !  Kiss,  kiss  her  !  Who  will  see  ? 
Only  we  three  !  we  three  !  we  three  ! " 

Under  garlands  of  drooping  vines. 

Through  dim  vistas  of  sweet-breathed  pines, 
Past  wide  meadow-fields  lately  mow'd, 
Wander'd  the  indolent  country  road. 

The  lovers  follow'd  it,  listening  still, 

And,  loitering  slowly,  as  lovers  will, 

Enter'd  a  low-roofd  bridge,  that  lay. 
Dusky  and  cool,  in  their  pleasant  way. 

Under  its  arch  a  smooth,  bright  sti'eam 

Silently  glided,  with  glint  and  gleam. 

Shaded  by  graceful  elms  that  spread 
Their  verdurous  canopy  overhead,  — 

The  stream  so  narrow,  the  boughs  so  wide, 

They  met  and  mingled  across  the  tide. 

Alders  loved  it,  and  seem'd  to  keep 
Patient  watch  as  it  lay  asleep. 

Mirroring  clearly  the  trees  and  sky 

And  the  flitting  form  of  the  dragon-fly. 

Save  where  the  swift-wing'd  swallow  play'd 
In  and  out  in  the  sun  and  shade. 

And,  darting  and  circling  in  merry  chase, 

Dipp'd,  and  dimpled  its  clear  dark  face. 

Fluttering  lightly  from  brink  to  brink 

Follow'd  the  garrulous  bobolink, 

Rallying  loudly,  with  mirthful  din. 
The  pair  who  linger'd  unseen  within. 


ROBERT    OF    LINCOLN.  483 

And,  when  from  the  friendly  bridge  at  last 

Into  the  road  bej^ond  they  pass'd. 

Again  beside  them  the  tempter  went, 
Keeping  the  thread  of  liis  argument,  — 

''  Kiss  her!  kiss  her!  chiuk-a-ehee-chee  ! 

I'll  not  mention  it !  don't  mind  me  ! 
I'll  be  sentinel,  —  I  can  see 
All  around  from  this  tall  birch-tree  I  " 

But,  ah  !  they  noted  —  nor  deemed  it  strange  — 

In  his  rollicking  chorus  a  trifling  change  : 

"  Do  it !  do  it !  "  with  might  and  main 
Warbled  the  telltale,  —  "  Do  it  again!" 


ojet^c 


EGBERT   OF   LINOOLIT. 

W.  C.  Bryant. 

Merrily  swinging  on  brier  and  weed. 
Near  to  the  nest  of  his  little  dame, 
Over  the  mountain-side  or  mead, 

Robert  of  Lincoln  is  telling  his  name : 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink  ; 
Snug  and  safe  is  that  nest  of  ours. 
Hidden  among  the  summer  flowers, 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Robert  of  Lincoln  is  gail}'  dress'd, 

"Wearing  a  bright  black  wedding-coat ; 
"White  are  his  shoulders  and  white  his  crest. 
Hear  him  call  his  merry  note : 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink ; 
Look,  what  a  nice  new  coat  is  mine, 
Sure  there  never  was  a  bird  so  fine, 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 


484  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Robert  of  Lincoln's  Qnaker  wife, 

Pretty  and  quiet,  with  plain  brown  wings, 
Passing  at  home  a  patient  life, 

Broods  in  the  grass  while  her  husband  sings 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-liuk, 
Spink,  spank,  spink  ; 
Brood,  kind  creature  ;  30U  need  not  fear 
Thieves  and  robbers  while  I  am  here. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Modest  and  shy  as  a  nun  is  she, 

One  weak  chirp  is  her  only  note  ; 
Braggart  and  prince  of  braggarts  is  he, 
Pouring  boasts  from  his  little  throat : 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink ; 
Never  was  I  afraid  of  man ; 
Catch  me,  cowardly  knaves,  if  you  can. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Six  white  eggs  on  a  bed  of  hay, 

Fleck'd  with  purple,  a  pretty  sight ! 
There  as  the  mother  sits  all  day, 

Robert  is  singing  with  all  his  might  t 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink ; 
Nice  good  wife,  that  never  goes  out. 
Keeping  house  while  I  frolic  about. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Soon  as  the  little  ones  chip  the  shell. 

Six  wide  mouths  are  open  for  food  ; 
Robert  of  Lincoln  bestirs  him  well. 
Gathering  seed  for  the  hungr}'  brood. 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink ; 


*'ROCK    OF    AGES. 

This  new  life  is  likely  to  he 
Hard  for  a  gay  young  fellow  like  me. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Robert  of  Lincoln  at  length  is  made 

Sober  with  work  and  silent  with  care ; 
Off  is  his  holiday  garment  laid, 
Half  forgotten  that  merry  air : 
Bob-o'-liuk,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink ; 
Nobody  knows  but  my  mate  and  I 
Where  our  nest  and  our  nestlings  lie. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Summer  wanes  ;  the  children  are  grown  ; 

Fun  and  frolic  no  more  he  knows  ; 
Robert  of  Lincoln's  a  humdrum  crone  ; 
Off  he  flies,  and  we  sing  as  he  goes : 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink  ; 
When  you  can  pipe  that  merry  old  strain, 
Robert  of  Lincoln,  come  back  again. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 


«EOOK  OF  AGES." 

Prof.  Edward  H.  Rice. 

"  Rock  of  ages,  cleft  for  me," 

Thoughtlessly  the  maiden  sung : 
Fell  the  words  unconsciously 

From  her  girlish,  gleeful  tongue. 
Sung  as  little  children  sing. 

Sung  as  sing  the  birds  in  June  ; 
Fell  the  words  like  light  leaves  sown 

On  the  current  of  the  tune,  — 
"  Rock  of  ages,  cleft  for  me. 
Let  me  hide  myself  in  Thee." 


485 


486  CHOICE   READINGS. 

Felt  hei  soul  no  need  to  hide ; 

Sweet  the  song  as  song  could  be, 
And  she  had  no  thought  beside  : 

All  the  words  unheedingly 
Fell  from  lips  untouch'd  by  care, 

Dreaming  not  that  each  might  be 
On  some  other  lips  a  prayer, — 
"  Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me, 
Let  me  hide  myself  in  Thee." 

"  Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me,"  — 

'Twas  a  woman  sung  them  now, 
Pleadingly  and  prayerfully : 

Every  word  her  heart  did  know : 
Rose  the  song,  as  storm-toss'd  bird 

Beats  with  weary  wing  the  air, 
Every  note  with  sorrow  stirr'd, 

Eveiy  syllable  a  pra3-er,  — 
*'  Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me, 
Let  me  hide  myself  in  Thee." 

"  Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me,"  — 

Lips  grown  ag^d  sung  the  h3'mn 
Trustingly  and  tenderly, 

Voice  grown  weak  and  eyes  grown  dim, 
"  Let  me  hide  myself  m  Thee." 

Trembling  though  the  voice,  and  low, 
Rose  the  sweet  strain  peacefully 

As  a  river  in  its  flow  ; 
Sung  as  only  they  can  sing 

Who  life's  thorny  paths  have  press'd  ; 
Sung  as  only  they  can  sing 

"Who  behold  the  promised  rest. 

*'  Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me," 

Sung  above  a  coffin-lid  ; 
Underneath,  all  restfully 

All  life's  cares  and  sorrows  hid. 


JDEIFTING.  487 


Never  more,  O  storm-toss'd  soul ! 

Never  more  from  wind  or  tide, 
Never  more  from  billow's  roll, 

Wilt  thou  need  thyself  to  hide. 
Could  the  sightless,  sunken  e^-es, 

Closed  beneath  the  soft  gray  hair, 
Could  the  mute  and  stiffen' d  lips. 

Move  again  in  pleading  prayer, 
Still,  a}',  still  the  words  would  be, 
"  Let  me  hide  myself  in  Thee.'* 


DEIFTING. 

T.  Buchanan  Read. 

Mt  soul  to-day  is  far  away, 
Sailing  the  Vesuvian  Bay  ; 
M}-  winged  boat,  a  bird  afloat. 
Swims  round  the  purple  peaks  remote : 

Round  purple  peaks  it  sails,  and  seeks 
Blue  inlets  and  their  crystal  creeks, 
"Where  high  rocks  throw,  through  deeps  below, 
A  duplicated  golden  glow. 

Far,  vague,  and  dim  the  mountains  swim ; 
"While,  on  Vesuvius'  misty  brim, 
"With  outstretch'd  hands  the  gra}-  smoke  stands 
O'erlooking  the  volcanic  lands. 

In  lofty  lines,  'mid  palms  and  pines, 
And  olives,  aloes,  elms,  and  vines, 
Sorrento  swings  on  sunset  wings. 
Where  Tasso's  spirit  soars  and  sings. 


488  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Here  Ischia  smiles  o'er  liquid  miles  ; 
And  yonder,  bluest  of  the  Isles, 
Calm  Capri  waits,  her  sapphire  gates 
Beguiling  to  her  bright  estates. 

I  heed  not,  if  ray  rippling  skiff 
Float  swift  or  slow  from  cliff  to  cliff: 
With  dreamful  eyes  m}'  spirit  lies 
Under  the  walls  of  Paradise. 

Under  the  walls,  where  swells  and  falls 
The  Bay's  deep  breast  at  intervals, 
At  peace  I  lie,  blown  softly  by, 
A  cloud  upon  this  liquid  sky. 

The  day,  so  mild,  is  Heaven's  own  child, 
With  earth  and  ocean  reconciled  : 
The  airs  I  feel  around  me  steal 
Are  murmuring  to  the  murmuring  keel : 

Over  the  rail  my  hand  I  trail 
Within  the  shadow  of  the  sail ; 
A  joy  intense,  the  cooling  sense, 
Glides  down  my  drowsy  indolence : 

With  dreamful  eyes  my  spirit  lies 
Where  Summer  sings  and  never  dies  ; 
O'erveil'd  with  vines,  she  glows  and  shines 
Among  her  future  oil  and  wines. 

Her  children,  hid  the  cliffs  amid, 
Are  gambolling  with  the  gambolling  kid  ; 
Or  down  the  walls,  with  tipsy  calls, 
Laugh  on  the  rocks  like  waterfalls. 

The  fisher's  child,  with  tresses  wild. 
Unto  the  smooth,  bright  sand  beguiled, 
With  glowing  lips  sings  as  she  skips. 
Or  gazes  at  the  f  ar-oflF  ships. 


DRIFTING. 

Yon  deep  bark  goes  where  traffic  blows, 
From  lands  of  sun  to  lands  of  snows : 
This  happier  one,  its  conrse  is  run 
From  lands  of  snow  to  lands  of  sun. 

O  happy  ship,  to  rise  and  dip, 
With  the  blue  crystal  at  your  lip  ! 
O  happy  crew,  my  heart  with  you 
Sails,  and  sails,  and  sings  anew ! 

No  more,  no  more  the  worldly  shore 
Upbraids  me  with  its  loud  uproar ! 
With  dreamful  eyes  my  spirit  lies 
Under  the  walls  of  Paradise ! 


489 


490  CHOICE   READINGS. 


XII. 

FOR   YOUNG   FOLKS. 


ANNIE  AND   WILLIE'S   PKAYER. 

Mrs.   Sophia   P.  Snow. 

'TwAS  the  eve  before  Christmas ;  "  Good  night "  had  been  said 

And  Annie  and  Willie  had  crept  into  bed : 

There  were  tears  on  their  pillows,  and  tears  in  their  eyes, 

And  each  little  bosom  was  heaving  with  sighs, 

For  to-night  their  stern  father's  command  had  been  given 

That  they  should  retire  precisely  at  seven 

Instead  of  at  eight ;  for  they  troubled  him  more 

With  questions  unheard-of  than  ever  before : 

He  had  told  them  he  thought  this  delusion  a  sin ; 

No  such  being  as  Santa  Claus  ever  had  been, 

And  he  hoped,  after  this,  he  should  never  more  hear 

How  he  scrambled  down  chimneys  with  presents,  each  year ; 

And  this  was  the  reason  that  two  little  heads 

So  restlessly  toss'd  on  their  soft  downy  beds. 

Eight,  nine,  and  the  clock  on  the  steeple  toll'd  ten, — 
Not  a  word  had  been  spoken  by  either  till  then  ; 
When  Willie's  sad  face  from  the  blanket  did  peep, 
And  whisper'd,  "  Dear  Annie,  is  you  fast  asleep  ?  " 
"  Why,  no,  brother  Willie,"  a  sweet  voice  replies, 
"  I've  tried  it  in  vain,  but  I  can't  shut  my  eyes ; 
For,  somehow,  it  makes  me  so  sorry  because 
Dear  papa  has  said  there  is  no  Santa  Claus. 
Now  we  know  that  there  is,  and  it  can't  be  denied, 
For  he  came  every  year  before  mamma  died  : 
But  then  I've  been  thinking  that  she  used  to  pray, 
And  God  would  hear  every  thing  mamma  would  say ; 
And  perhaps  she  ask'd  him  to  send  Santa  Claus  here. 
With  the  sacks  full  of  presents  he  brought  every  year." 


ANNIE   AND    WILLIe's    PRATER.  491 

"  Well,  why  taut  we  pay  dest  as  mamma  did  then, 

And  ask  Him  to  send  him  with  presents  aden  ?  " 

"I've  been  thinking  so,  too;"  and,  without  a  word  more, 

Four  little  bare  feet  bounded  out  on  the  floor, 

And  four  little  knees  the  soft  carpet  press'd, 

And  two  tiny  hands  were  clasp'd  close  to  each  breast. 

"  Xow,  Willie,  you  know  we  must  firmly  believe 

That  the  presents  we  ask  for  we're  sure  to  receive : 

You  must  wait  just  as  still  till  I  say  the  '  Amen,' 

And  by  that  you  will  know  that  your  turn  has  come  then. 

Dear  Jesus,  look  down  on  my  brother  and  me, 

And  grant  us  the  favour  we  are  asking  of  Thee : 

I  want  a  wax  dolly,  a  tea-set  and  ring, 

And  an  ebony  work-box  that  shuts  with  a  spring. 

Bless  papa,  dear  Jesus,  and  cause  him  to  see 

That  Santa  Claus  loves  us  far  better  than  he : 

Don't  let  him  get  fretful  and  angry  again. 

At  dear  brother  Willie,  and  Annie,  Amen  !  " 

"  Peas  Desus  'et  Santa  Taus  turn  down  to-night, 

And  bing  us  some  pesents  before  it  is  'ight : 

I  want  he  should  div  me  a  nice  ittle  sed. 

With  bight,  shiny  unners,  and  all  painted  yed ; 

A  box  full  of  tandy,  a  book  and  a  toy, — 

Amen,  —  and  then,  Desus,  I'll  be  a  dood  boy."'' 

Their  prayers  being  ended,  they  raised  up  their  heads. 
And  with  hearts  light  and  cheerful  again  sought  their  beds ; 
They  were  soon  lost  in  slumber  both  peaceful  and  deep, 
And  with  fairies  in  dreamland  were  roaming  in  sleep. 

Eight,  nine,  and  the  little  French  clock  had  struck  ten, 
Ere  the  father  had  thought  of  his  children  again : 
He  seems  now  to  hear  Annie's  half-suppress'd  sighs. 
And  to  see  the  big  tears  stand  in  Willie's  blue  eyes : 
"  I  was  harsh  with  my  darlings,"  he  mentally  said, 
"  And  should  not  have  sent  them  so  early  to  bed ; 
But  then  I  was  troubled,  —  my  feelings  found  vent, 
For  bank  stock  to-day  has  gone  down  ten  per  cent. : 
But  of  course  they've  forgotten  their  troubles  ere  this, 
And  that  I  denied  them  the  thrice-ask'd-for  kiss ; 
But  just  to  make  sure  I'll  steal  up  to  their  door, 
For  I  never  spoke  harsh  to  ray  darlings  before." 


492  CHOICE    READINGS. 

So  saying,  he  softly  ascended  the  stairs, 

And  arrived  at  the  door  to  hear  both  of  their  prayers. 

His  Annie's  "  bless  papa  "  draws  forth  the  big  tears. 

And  Willie's  grave  promise  falls  sweet  on  his  ears. 

"  Strange,  strange  I'd  forgotten,"  said  he  with  a  sigh, 

"  How  1  long'd  when  a  child  to  have  Christmas  draw  nigh ; 

I'll  atone  for  my  harshness,"  he  inwardly  said, 

"  By  answering  their  prayers,  ere  I  sleep  in  my  bed." 

Then  he  turn'd  to  the  stairs,  and  softly  went  down. 

Threw  off  velvet  slippers  and  silk  dressing-gown  ; 

Donn'd  hat,  coat,  and  boots,  and  was  out  in  the  street, 

A  millionaire  facing  the  cold  driving  sleet; 

Nor  stopp'd  he  until  he  had  bought  every  thing. 

From  the  box  full  of  candy  to  the  tiny  gold  ring. 

Indeed  he  kept  adding  so  much  to  his  store. 

That  the  various  presents  outnumber'd  a  score  ; 

Then  homeward  he  tuni'd  with  his  holiday  load, 

And  with  Aunt  Mary's  aid  in  the  nursery  'twas  stow'd. 

Miss  Dolly  was  seated  beneath  a  pine  tree. 

By  the  side  of  a  table  spread  out  for  a  tea ; 

A  work-box  well  fill'd  in  the  centre  was  laid. 

And  on  it  the  ring  for  which  Annie  had  pray'd ; 

A  soldier  in  uniform  stood  by  a  sled. 

With  bright  shining  runnei'S,  and  all  painted  red ; 

There  were  balls,  dogs  and  horses,  books  pleasing  to  see. 

And  birds  of  all  colours  were  perch'd  in  the  tree. 

While  Santa  Claus  laughing  stood  up  in  the  top, 

As  if  getting  ready  more  presents  to  drop. 

And,  as  the  fond  father  the  picture  survey'd, 

He  thought,  for  his  trouble  he  had  amply  been  paid ; 

And  he  said  to  himself  as  he  brush'd  off  a  tear, 

"  I'm  happier  to-night  than  I've  been  for  a  year ; 

I've  enjoy'd  more  true  pleasure  than  ever  before,  — 

What  care  I  if  bank  stocks  fall  ten  per  cent,  more? 

Hereafter  I'll  make  it  a  rule,  I  believe, 

To  have  Santa  Claus  visit  us  each  Christmas-eve." 

So  thinking  he  gently  extinguish'd  the  light. 

And  tripp'd  down  the  stairs  to  retire  for  the  night. 

As  soon  as  the  beams  of  the  bright  morning  Sun 
Put  the  darkness  to  flight,  and  the  stars,  one  by  one, 


THE    DEAD    DOLL.  493 

Four  little  blue  eyes  out  of  sleep  open'd  wide, 
And  at  the  same  moment  the  presents  espied ; 
Tlien  out  of  their  beds  they  sprang  with  a  bound, 
And  the  very  gifts  pray'd  for  were  all  of  them  found  : 
They  laugh'd  and  they  cried  in  their  innocent  glee, 
And  shouted  for  "  papa  "  to  come  quick  and  see 
What  presents  old  Santa  Claus  brought  in  the  night, 
(Just  the  things  that  they  wanted,)  and  left  before  light : 
"  And  now,"  added  Annie,  in  a  voice  soft  and  low, 
"  You'll  believe  there's  a  Santa  Claus,  papa,  I  know  " ; 
Wliile  dear  little  Willie  climb'd  up  on  his  knee. 
Determined  no  secret  between  them  should  be, 
And  told  in  soft  whispers  how  Annie  had  said. 
That  their  blessed  mamma,  so  long  ago  dead. 
Used  to  kneel  down  and  praj'  by  the  side  of  her  chair, 
And  that  God,  up  in  Heaven,  had  answer'd  her  prayer! 
"  Then  we  dot  up,  and  pay'd  dust  as  well  as  we  tould, 
And  Dod  answer'd  our  payers  ;  now  wasn't  he  dood?" 
"  I  should  say  that  He  was  if  He  sent  you  all  these. 
And  knew  just  what  presents  my  children  would  please  : 
Well,  well,  let  him  think  so,  the  dear  little  elf ; 
'Twould  be  cruel  to  tell  him  I  did  it  myself." 

Blind  father  !  who  caused  your  proud  heart  to  relent, 
And  the  hasty  word  spoken  so  soon  to  repent  ? 
'Twas  the  Being  who  made  you  steal  softly  up  stairs, 
And  made  you  His  agent  to  answer  their  prayers. 


THE  DEAD  DOLL. 

Margaret  Vandegrift. 

You  needn't  be  trying  to  comfort  me  :  I  tell  you  my  dolly  is  dead  1 
There's  no  use  in  saying  she  isn't,  with  a  crack  like  that  in  her 

head ! 
It's  just  like  you  said  it  wouldn't  hurt  much  to  have  my  tooth,  out 

that  day ; 
And  then,  when  the  man  most  pull'd  my  head  off,  you  hadn't  a 

word  to  say. 


494  CHOICE    READINGS. 

And  I  guess  you  must  think   I'm  a  baby,  wlien  you  say  you  can 

mend  it  with  glue ! 
As  if  I  didn't  know  better  than  that !     Why,  just  suppose  it  was 

you! 
You  might  make  her  look  all  mended ;  but  what  do  I  care  for  looks  V 
Why,  glue's  for  chairs  and  tables  and  toys,  and  the  backs  of  books ! 

My  dolly !  my  own  little  daughter !    O,  but  it's  the  awf  ulest  crack  ! 
It  just  makes  me  sick  to  think  of  the  sound  when  her  poor  head 

went  whack 
Against  that  horrible  brass  thing  that  holds  up  the  little  shelf! 
Now,  nni-sey,  what  makes  you  remind  me?     I  know  that  I  did  it 

myself  I 

I  think  you  must  be  crazy !     You'll  get  her  another  head ! 
What  good  would  forty  heads  do  her  ?    I  tell  you  my  dolly  is  dead ! 
And  to  think  I  hadn't  quite  finish'd  her  elegant  new  spring  hat ! 
And  I  took  a  sweet  ribbon  of  hers  last  night  to  tie  on  that  horrid 
cat! 

When  my  mamma  gave  me  that  ribbon,  —  I  was  playing  out  in  the 

yard,  — 
She  said  to  me  most  expressly,  "  Here's  a  ribbon  for  Hildegarde." 
And  I  went  and  put  it  on  Tabby,  and  Hildegarde  saw  me  do  it ; 
But  I  said  to  myself,  "  O,  never  mind ;  I  don't  believe  she  knew  it." 

But  I  know  that  she  knew  it  now ;  and  I  just  believe,  I  do. 
That  her  poor  little  heart  was  broken,  and  so  her  head  broke  too. 
O,  my  baby !  my  little  baby  !     I  wish  my  head  had  been  hit ! 
For  I've  hit  it  over  and  over,  and  it  hasn't  crack'd  a  bit ! 

But,  since  the  darling  is  dead,  she'll  want  to  be  buried,  of  course. 
We  will  take  my  little  wagon,  nurse ;  and  you  shall  be  the  horse ; 
And  I'll  walk  behind,  and  cry  ;  and  we'll  put  her  in  this,  you  see,  — 
This  dear  little  box,  —  and  we'll  bury  her  then  under  the  maple- 
tree. 

And  papa  will  make  me  a  tombstone  like  the  one  he  made  for  my 

bird; 
And  he'll  put  what  I  tell  him  on  it ;  yes,  every  single  word. 
I  shall  say,  "  Here  lies  Hildegarde,  a  beautiful  doll,  who  is  dead; 
She  died  of  a  broken  heart,  and  a  dreadful  crack  in  her  head." 


AN    EVENING    WITH    HELEN'S    BABIES.  495 

AN  EVENING  WITH  HELEN'S   BABIES. 

J.  Habberton. 

With  a  head  fall  of  pleasing  faucies,  I  went  down  to  sup- 
per. My  new  friends,  Helen's  babies,  were  unusually  good. 
There  were  two  of  them.  Budge,  the  elder,  was  five  years 
of  age,  and  Toddie  had  seen  but  three  Summers.  Their  ride 
seemed  to  have  toned  down  their  boisterousness  and  elevated 
their  little  souls  ;  their  appetites  exhibited  no  diminution  of 
force  ;  but  they  talked  but  little,  and  all  that  they  said  was 
smart,  funny,  or  startling, — so  much  so  that  when,  after 
supper,  they  invited  me  to  put  them  to  bed,  I  gladly 
accepted  the  invitation.  Toddie  disappeared  somewhere, 
and  came  back  very  disconsolate. 

"  Can't  find  my  dolly's  k'adle,"  he  whined. 

"  Never  mind,  old  pet,"  said  I,  soothingly.  "  Uncle  will 
ride  a-ou  on  his  foot." 

"  But  I  ivant  my  dolly's  k'adle,"  said  he,  piteously  rolling 
out  his  lower  lip, 

I  remembered  my  experience  when  Toddie  wanted  to  "  shee 
wheels  go  wound,"  and  I  trembled. 

"Toddie,"  said  I,  in  a  tone  so  persuasive  that  it  would 
be  worth  thousands  a-year  to  me,  as  a  salesman,  ifl  could 
only  command  it  at  will;  '' Toddie,  don't  you  want  to  ride 
on  uncle's  back?  " 

"No;  want  my  dolly's  k'adle." 

"  Don't  you  want  me  to  tell  you  a  story?" 

For  a  moment  Toddie's  face  indicated  a  terrible  internal 
conflict  between  old  Adam  and  mother  Eve,  but  curiosity 
finally  overpowered  natural  depravity,  and  Toddie  mur- 
mured, — 

"Yesh." 

"  What  shall  I  tell  you  about?  " 

"  'Bout  Nawndeark." 

"About  ivhat?" 

"  He  means  Noah  an'  the  ark,"  exclaimed  Budge. 

"  Datsh  what  /shay,  — Nawndeark,"  declared  Toddie. 


496  CHOICE    READINGS. 

"  Well,"  said  I,  hastily  refreshing  my  memory  hy  picking 
up  the  Bible,  —  for  Helen,  like  most  people,  is  pretty  sure 
to  forget  to  pack  her  Bible  when  she  runs  away  from  home 
for  a  few  flays,  —  "well,  once  it  rained  forty  days  and 
nights,  and  everybody  was  drowned  from  the  face  of  the 
Earth  excepting  Noah,  a  righteous  man  who  was  saved  with 
all  his  family,  in  an  ark  which  the  Lord  commanded  him  to 
build." 

"  Uncle  Harry,"  said  Budge,  after  contemplating  me  with 
open  eyes  and  mouth  for  at  least  two  minutes  after  I  had 
finished,  "  do  you  think  that's  Noah?" 

"  Certainly,  Budge  ;  here's  the  whole  story  in  the  Bible." 

"Well,  /  don't  think  it's  Noah  one  single  bit,"  said  he, 
with  increasing  emphasis. 

"I'm  beginning  to  think  we  read  different  Bibles,  Budge; 
but  let's  hear  your  version." 

"Huh?" 

"Tell  me  about  Noah,  if  you  know  so  much  about  him." 

"  I  will,  if  you  want  me  to.  Once  the  Lord  felt  so  uncom- 
fortable cos  folks  was  bad  that  he  was  sorry  he  ever  made 
anj-body,  or  an}-  world,  or  any  thing.  But  Noah  wasn't  bad  ; 
the  Lord  liked  him  first-rate ;  so  he  told  Noah  to  build  a  big 
ark,  and  then  the  Lord  would  make  it  rain  so  everybody 
should  be  drownded  but  Noah  an'  his  little  boys  an'  girls, 
an'  doggies  an'  pussies,  an'  mamma-cows,  an'  little-boy- 
cows  an'  little-girl-cows,  an'  bosses,  an'  every  thing ;  the3''d 
go  in  the  ark,  an'  wouldn't  get  wetted  a  bit  when  it  rained. 
An'  Noah  took  lots  of  things  to  eat  in  the  ark;  cookies,  an' 
milk,  an'  oatmeal,  an'  strawberries,  an'  porgies,  an'  —  O, 
yes  —  an'  plum-puddins,  an'  pumpkin-pies.  But  Noah 
didn't  want  everybody  to  get  drownded,  so  he  talked  to  folks, 
an'  said,  '  It's  goin  to  rain  awful  pretty  soon  ;  you'd  better 
be  good,  an'  then  the  Lord'U  let  you  come  into  my  ark.' 
An'  they  jus'  said,  '  O,  if  it  rains  we'll  go  in  the  house  till  it 
stops  ;  an'  other  folks  said,  '  We  ain't  afraid  of  rain  ;  we've 
got  an  umbrella.'  An'  some  more  said,  they  wasn't  goin'  to 
be  afraid  of  just  a  rain.     But  it  did  rain  though,  an'  folks 


KATIE    LEE    AND    WILLIE    GREY.  497 

went  in  their  houses,  an'  the  water  came  in,  an'  they  went 
up  stairs,  an'  the  water  came  up  there,  an'  they  got  on  the 
tops  of  tl>e  houses,  an'  up  in  big  trees,  an'  up  in  mountains, 
an'  the  water  went  after  'em  everywhere  an'  drownded 
everybody,  only  just  except  Noah  and  the  people  in  the  ark. 
An'  it  rained  forty  days  an'  nights,  an'  then  it  stopped  ;  an' 
Noah  got  out  of  the  ark,  an'  he  an'  his  little  boys  an' 
girls  went  wherever  tliey  wanted  to,  and  every  thing  in  the 
world  was  all  theirs  ;  there  wasn't  anybod}'  to  tell  'em  to  go 
home,  nor  no  Kindergarten  schools  to  go  to,  nor  no  bad 
boys  to  fight  'em,  nor  nothin'.     Now  tell  us  'uother  story." 


KATIE  LEE  AND  WILLIE  GEEY. 

Miss  Josie  R.  Hunt. 

Two  brown  heads  with  tossing  curls, 
Red  lips  shutting  over  pearls, 
Bare  feet,  white  and  wet  with  dew, 
Two  eyes  black,  and  two  eyes  blue ; 
Little  girl  and  boy  were  they, 
Katie  Lee  and  Willie  Grey. 

They  were  standing  where  a  brook, 
Bending  like  a  shepherd's  crook, 
Flash'd  its  silver,  and  thick  ranks 
Of  willow  fringed  its  mossy  banks ; 
Half  in  thought,  and  half  in  play, 
Katie  Lee  and  Willie  Grey. 

They  had  cheeks  like  cherries  red ; 
He  was  taller,  —  'most  a  head  ; 
She,  with  arms  like  wreaths  of  snow. 
Swung  a  basket  to  and  fro 
As  she  loiter'd,  half  in  play, 
Chattering  to  Willie  Grey. 


4S8  CHOICE    READINGS. 

"  Pretty  Katie,"  Willie  said,  — 
And  there  came  a  dash  of  red 
Through  the  brownness  of  his  cheek,  — 
"  Boys  are  strong  and  girls  are  weak, 
And  I'll  carry,  so  I  will, 
Katie's  basket  up  the  hill." 

Katie  answer'd  with  a  laugh, 
"  You  shall  carry  only  half  "  ; 
And  then,  tossing  back  her  curls, 
"  B03S  are  weak  as  well  as  gii'ls." 
Do  you  think  that  Katie  guess'd 
Half  the  wisdom  she  express'd  ? 

Men  are  only  boys  grown  tall ; 
Hearts  don't  change  much  after  all ; 
And  when,  long  years  from  that  day, 
Katie  Lee  and  Willie  Grey 
Stood  again  beside  the  brook. 
Bending  like  a  shepherd's  crook,— 

Is  it  strange  that  Willie  said, 
While  again  a  dash  of  red 
Cross'd  the  brownness  of  his  cheek, 
"  I  am  strong  and  yon  are  weak ; 
Life  is  but  a  slippery  steep. 
Hung  with  shadows  cold  and  deep- 
Will  you  trust  me,  Katie  dear,  -- 
Walk  beside  me  without  fear? 
May  I  cany,  if  I  will. 
All  your  burdens  up  the  hill  ?  " 
And  she  answer'd  with  a  laugh, 
"  No,  but  you  ma}^  carry  half." 

Close  beside  the  little  brook. 
Bending  like  a  shepherd's  crook, 
Washing  with  its  silver  hands 


KEEPING    HIS    AVORD.  499 

Late  and  earl}'  at  the  sands, 
Is  a  cottage,  where  to-day 
Katie  lives  with  Willie  Grey. 

In  a  porch  she  sits,  and,  lo ! 
Swings  a  basket  to  and  fro,  — 
Vastly  different  from  the  one 
That  she  swung  in  years  agone ; 
This  is  long  and  deep  and  wide, 
And  has  —  rockers  at  the  side. 


KEEPING  HIS  WORD. 

"  Only  a  penny  a  box,"  he  said  ; 
But  the  gentleman  turn'd  away  his  head, 
As  if  he  shrank  from  tlie  squalid  sight 
Of  the  bo}'  who  stood  in  the  failing  light. 

"  O  sir  !  "  he  stammer'd,  "  3'ou  cannot  know," 
(And  he  brush'd  from  his  matches  the  flakes  of  snow, 
That  the  sudden  tear  might  have  chance  to  fall,) 
"Or  I  think,  —  I  think  you  would  take  them  all. 

Hungry  and  cold  at  our  garret-pane, 
Ruby  will  watch  till  I  come  again, 
Bringing  the  loaf.     The  Sun  has  set. 
And  he  hasn't  a  crumb  of  breakfast  yet. 

One  penn}',  and  then  I  can  buy  the  bread ! " 
The  gentleman  stopp'd  :  '  ^  And  you  ?  "  he  said ; 
"  / —  I  can  put  up  with  them,  —  hunger  and  cold, 
But  Ruby  is  only  five  years  old. 

I  promised  our  mother  before  she  went,  — 
She  knew  I  would  do  it,  and  died  content,  — 
I  promised  her,  sir,  through  best,  through  worst, 
I  always  would  think  of  Ruby  first." 


500  CHOICE   READINGS. 

The  gentleman  paused  at  his  open  door, 
Such  tales  he  had  often  heard  before  ; 
But  he  fumbled  his  purse  in  the  twilight  drear, 
*'  I  have  nothing  less  than  a  shilling  here." 

"  O  sir  !  if  3^ou'll  only  take  the  pack 
I'll  bring  you  the  change  in  a  moment  back ; 
Indeed  you  ma}'  trust  me  !  "     "  Trust  you  ?  —  no ! 
But  here  is  the  shilling;  take  it  and  go." 

The  gentleman  loll'd  in  his  cozy  chair, 
And  watch'd  his  cigar-wreath  melt  in  air, 
And  smiled  on  his  children,  and  rose  to  see 
The  baby  asleep  on  its  mother's  knee. 

"  And  now  it  is  nine  b}'  the  clock,"  he  said, 

"  Time  that  my  darlings  were  all  a-bed  ; 

Kiss  me  '  good-night,'  and  each  be  sure, 

When  you're  saj'ing  your  prayers,  remember  the  poor." 

Just  then  came  a  message,  —  "A  boy  at  the  door,"  — 
But  ere  it  was  utter'd  he  stood  on  the  floor 
Half-breathless,  bewilder'd,  and  ragged  and  strange  ; 
"  I'm  Ruby,  — Mike's  brother,  —  I've  brought  you  the  change 

Mike's  hurt,  sir ;  'twas  dark  ;  the  snow  made  him  blind, 
And  he  didn't  take  notice  the  train  was  behind 
Till  he  slipp'd  on  the  track  ;  and  then  it  whizz'd  by ; 
And  he's  home  in  the  garret ;  I  think  he  will  die- 
Yet  nothing  would  do  him,  sir,  — nothing  would  do, 
But  out  through  the  snow  I  must  hurr}-  to  you : 
Of  his  hurt  he  was  certain  you  wouldn't  have  heard, 
And  so  you  might  think  he  had  broken  his  word." 

When  the  garret  they  hastily  enter'd,  they  saw 
Two  arms  mangled,  shapeless,  outstretch'd  from  the  straw. 
•'  You  did  it,  —  dear  Ruby,  — God  bless  you  !  "  he  said. 
And  the  boy,  gladly  smiling,  sank  back,  — and  was  dead. 


A   LEAP    FOR   LIFE.  501 

A  LEAP  FOR   LIFE. 

Walter  Colton. 

Old  Ironsides  at  anchor  lay 

In  the  harbour  of  Mahon  ; 
A  dead  calm  rested  on  the  bay,  — 

The  waves  to  sleep  had  gone ; 
When  little  Hal,  the  Captain's  son, 

A  lad  both  brave  and  good, 
In  sport  up  shroud  and  rigging  ran, 

And  on  the  main  truck  stood ! 

A  shudder  shot  through  every  vein, 

All  eyes  were  turn'd  on  high  ! 
There  stood  the  bo^',  with  dizzy  brain, 

Between  the  sea  and  sky  ; 
No  hold  had  he  above,  below ; 

Alone  he  stood  in  air : 
To  that  far  height  none  dared  to  go, 

No  aid  could  reach  him  there. 

We  gazed,  but  not  a  man  could  speak  I 

With  horror  all  aghast ; 
In  groups,  with  pallid  brow  and  cheek, 

We  watch'd  the  quivering  mast : 
The  atmosphere  grew  thick  and  hot, 

And  of  a  lurid  hue  ;  — 
As  riveted  unto  the  spot, 

Stood  officers  and  crew. 

The  father  came  on  deck  :  he  gasp'd, 

'^O,  God!  thy  will  be  done  !  " 
Then  suddenly  a  rifle  grasp'd, 

And  aim'd  it  at  his  son. 
"  Jump,  far  out,  boy,  into  the  wave  ! 

Jump,  or  I  fire,"  he  said, 
"  That  0UI3'  chance  your  life  can  save  5 

Jump,  jump!"     The  boy  obey'd. 


502  CHOICE   READINGS. 

He  sunk,  —  he  rose,  —  he  lived,  —  he  moved, 

And  for  the  ship  struck  out : 
On  board  we  hail'd  the  lad  beloved, 

With  many  a  manly  shout. 
His  father  drew,  in  silent  joy, 

Those  wet  arms  round  his  neck, 
And  folded  to  his  heart  his  boy, 

Then  fainted  on  the  deck. 


LITTLE  EOOKET'S   OHEISTMAS. 

Vandyke  Brown. 

I'll  tell  you  how  the  Christmas  came 
To  Rocket ;  —  no,  3'ou  never  met  him, 

That  is,  you  never  knew  his  name, 
Although  'tis  possible  you've  let  him 

Display  his  skill  upon  your  shoes ; 

A  bootblack,  —  Arab,  if  3'ou  choose. 

Has  inspiration  dropp'd  to  zero 

When  such  material  makes  a  hero? 

And  who  was  Rocket?     Well,  an  urchin, 

A  gamin,  dirt}-,  torn,  and  tatter'd. 
Whose  chiefest  pleasure  was  to  perch  in 

The  Bowery  gallery ;  there  it  matter'd 
But  little  what  the  pla}^  might  be,  — 
Broad  farce  or  point-lace  comedy,  — 
He  meted  out  his  just  applause 
By  rigid,  fix'd,  and  proper  laws. 

A  father  once  he  had,  no  doubt, 

A  mother  on  the  Island  staying, 
Which  left  him  free  to  knock  about, 

And  gratif>-  a  taste  for  straying 
Through  crowded  streets.     'Twas  there  he  found 
Companionship  and  grew  renown 'd. 


LITTLE    rocket's    CHRISTMAS.  503 

An  ash-box  served  him  for  a  bed,  — 
As  good,  at  least,  as  Moses'  rushes ; 

And,  for  his  daily  meat  and  bread. 

He  earn'd  them  with  his  box  and  brushes. 

An  Arab  of  the  city's  slums. 

With  ready  tongue  and  empty  pocket. 

Unaided  left  to  solve  life's  sums, 

But  plucky  always,  —  that  was  Rocket ! 

'Twas  Christmas-eve,  and  all  the  day 

The  snow  had  fallen  fine  and  fast ; 
In  banks  and  drifted  heaps  it  lay 

Along  the  streets.     A  piercing  blast 
Blew  cuttingly.     The  storm  was  past. 
And  now  the  stars  look'd  coldly  down 
Upon  the  snow-enslu'ouded  town. 
Ah,  well  it  is  if  Christmas  brings 
Good-will  and  peace  which  poet  sings ! 
How  full  are  all  the  streets  to-night 
With  happy  faces,  flush'd  and  bright! 
The  matron  in  her  silks  and  furs, 

The  pompous  banker,  fat  and  sleek, 
The  idle,  well-fed  loiterers. 

The  merchant  trim,  the  churchman  meek, 
Forgetful  now  of  hate  and  spite, 
For  all  the  world  is  glad  to-night ! 
All,  did  I  say?     Ah,  no,  not  all. 
For  sorrow  tlirows  on  some  its  pall ; 
And  here,  within  the  broad,  fair  city, 

The  Christmas-time  no  beauty  brings 
To  those  who  plead  in  vain  for  pity, 

To  those  who  clierish  but  the  stings 
Of  wretchedness  and  want  and  woe. 
Who  never  love's  gi'eat  bountj'  know  ; 
Whose  grief  no  kindl}'  hands  assuage. 
Whose  misery  mocks  our  Christian  age. 


504  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Pray  ask  yourself  what  means  to  them 
That  Christ  is  born  in  Bethlehem  ! 

But  Rocket?     On  this  Christmas-eve 

You  might  have  seen  him  standing  where 
The  city's  streets  so  interweave 

They  form  that  somewhat  famous  square 
Called  Printing-House.     His  face  was  bright, 

And  at  this  gala,  festive  season 
Yon  could  not  find  a  heart  more  light,  — 

I'll  tell  you  in  a  word  the  reason  : 
B3'  dint  of  patient  toil  in  shining 

Patrician  shoes  and  Wall-street  boots, 
He  had  within  his  jacket's  lining 

A  dollar  and  a  half,  —  the  fruits 
Of  pinching,  saving,  and  a  trial 
Of  really  Spartan  self-denial. 

That  dollar  and  a  half  was  more 
Than  Rocket  ever  own'd  before  : 
A  princely  fortune,  so  he  thought, 

And  with  those  hoarded  dimes  and  nickels 
"What  Christmas  pleasures  may  be  bought ! 

A  dollar  and  a  half !     It  tickles 
The  boy  to  say  it  over,  musing 
Upon  the  money's  proper  using  : 
"  I'll  go  a  gobbler,  leg  and  breast. 

With  cranberry-sauce  and  fixiu's  nice. 
And  pie,  mince  pie,  the  very  best, 

And  pucldin',  —  say  a  double  slice  ! 
And  tlien  to  doughnuts  how  I'll  freeze  ; 
With  coffee,  — guess  that  ere's  the  cheese  ! 
And  after  grub  I'll  go  to  see 
The  '  Seven  Goblins  of  Dundee.' 
If  this  yere  Christmas  ain't  a  buster, 
I'll  let  ycr  rip  my  Sunday  duster  !  " 


TJTTLE    rocket's   CHRISTMAS.  505 

So  Rocket  mused  as  he  hurried  along, 

Ckitching  his  money  with  grasp  3'et  tighter, 
And  humming  the  air  of  a  rollicking  song. 

With  a  heart  as  light  as  his  clothes,  —  or  lighter. 
Through  Centre-street  he  makes  his  way. 

When,  just  as  he  turns  the  corner  at  Pearl, 
He  hears  a  voice  crj^  out  in  dismay, 

And  sees  before  him  a  slender  girl, 
As  ragged  and  tatter'd  in  dress  as  he. 

With  hand  stretch'd  fortli  for  charity. 

In  the  street-light's  fitful  and  flickering  glare 

He  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  pale,  pinch'd  face. 
So  gaunt  and  wasted,  yet  strangely  fair. 

With  a  lingering  touch  of  childhood's  grace 
On  her  delicate  features.     Her  head  was  bare. 

And  over  her  shoulders  disorder'd  there  hung 
A  mass  of  tangled,  nut-brown  hair. 

In  miser}'  old  as  in  years  she  was  young, 
She  gazed  in  his  face  ;  and,  O  !    for  the  eyes,  — 
The  big,  blue,  sorrowful,  hungiy  eyes,  — 

That  were  fix'd  in  a  desperate  frighten'd  stare. 

Hundreds  have  jostled  her  by  to-night,  — 

Tlie  rich,  the  great,  the  good,  and  the  wise ; 
Hurrying  on  to  the  warmth  and  light 
Of  happy  homes,  the}-  have  jostled  her  by  ; 
And  the  only  one  who  has  heard  her  cry, 
Or,  hearing,  has  felt  his  heartstrings  stirr'd. 

Is  Rocket,  —  this  youngster  of  coarser  clay. 
This  gamin,  who  never  so  much  as  heard 
The  beautiful  story  of  Him  who  lay 
In  the  manger  of  old  on  Christmas-day  ! 

With  artless  pathos  and  simple  speech, 
She  stands  and  tells  him  her  pitiful  tale : 

Ah,  well  if  those  who  pray  and  preach 
Could  catch  an  echo  of  that  sad  wail ! 


506  CHOICE    READINGS. 

She  tells  of  the  terrible  battle  for  bread, 
Tells  of  a  father  brutal  with  crime, 

Tells  of  a  mother  lying  dead, 
At  this  the  gala  Christmas-time  ; 

Then  adds,  gazing  up  at  the  starlit  sky, 

"  I'm  hungry  and  cold,  and  I  wish  I  could  die. 

What  is  it  trickles  down  the  cheek 

Of  Rocket?   can  it  be  a  tear? 
He  stands  and  stares,  but  does  not  speak ; 

He  thinks  again  of  that  good  cheer 
Which  Christmas  was  to  bring ;  he  sees 

Visions  of  turkey,  steaming  pies, 
The  play-bills  ;  then,  in  place  of  these, 

The  girl's  l^eseeching,  hungry  eyes : 
One  mighty  effort,  gulping  down 

The  disappointment  in  his  breast, 
A  quivering  of  the  lip,  a  frown, 

And  then,  while  pity  pleads  her  best, 
He  snatches  forth  his  cherish'd  hoard, 
And  gives  it  to  her  lilvc  a  lord ! 

"  Here,  freeze  to  that ;  I'm  flush,  yer  see  ; 
And  then  you  needs  it  more  'an  me  !  " 
With  that  he  turns  and  walks  away 
So  fast  the  girl  can  nothing  say. 
So  fast  he  does  not  hear  the  prayer 
That  sanctifies  the  Winter  air  : 
But  He  who  bless'd  the  widow's  mite 
Look'd  down  and  smiled  upon  the  sight. 

No  feast  of  steaming  pies  or  turkey, 

No  ticket  for  the  matinee  ; 
All  drear  and  desolate  and  murky, 

In  truth,  a  very  dismal  day. 
With  dinner  on  a  crust  of  bread. 

And  not  a  penny  in  his  pocket. 


papa's  letter.  507 

A  friendly  ash-box  for  a  bed,  — 

Thus  came  the  Christmas-day  to  Rocket ; 

And  yet,  — and  here's  the  strangest  thing,  — 
As  best  befits  the  festive  season, 

The  boy  was  happy  as  a  king,  — 
I  wonder  can  you  guess  the  reason? 


PAPA'S   LETTER. 

I  WAS  sitting  in  my  study, 

Writing  letters,  when  I  heard, 

"Please,  dear  mamma,  Mary  told  me 
Mamma  mustn't  be  'isturb'd. 

But  I'se  tir^d  of  the  kitty. 
Want  some  ozzer  fing  to  do. 

Witiug  letters,  is  'ou,  mamma? 
Tan't  I  wite  a  letter  too?" 

*'  Not  now,  darling,  mamma's  busy  ; 

Run  and  play  with  kitty,  now." 
"No,  no,  mamma  ;  me  wite  letter; 

Tan  if  'ou  will  show  me  how." 

I  would  paint  my  darling's  portrait 
As  his  sweet  eyes  search'd  my  face, 

Hair  of  gold  and  eyes  of  azure. 
Form  of  childish,  witching  grace. 

But  the  eager  face  was  clouded. 
As  I  slowly  shook  my  head. 

Till  I  said,  "  I'll  make  a  letter 
Of  you,  darling  boy,  instead." 

So  I  parted  back  the  tresses 

From  his  forehead  high  and  white, 

And  a  stamp  in  sport  I  pasted 
'Mid  its  waves  of  golden  light. 


508  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Then  I  said,  '•  Now,  little  letter, 
Go  awaj'  and  bear  good  news." 

And  I  smiled  as  down  the  staircase 
Clattcr'd  loiul  the  little  shoes. 

Leaving  mo,  the  darling  hurried 
Down  to  Mary  in  his  glee, 

"  Mamma's  witing  lots  of  letters  ; 
"  I'se  a  letter,  Mary,  — see  !  " 

No  one  heard  the  little  prattle. 

As  once  more  he  climb'd  the  stair, 

Reach'd  his  little  cap  and  tippet, 
Standing  on  the  entry  chair. 

No  one  heard  the  front  door  open, 
No  one  saw  the  golden  hair, 

As  it  floated  o'er  his  shoulders 
In  the  crisp  October  air. 

Down  the  street  the  baby  hasten'd 
Till  he  reach'd  the  office  door : 

"  I'se  a  letter,  Mr.  Postman  ; 
Is  there  room  for  any  more? 

'Cause  dis  letter's  doin'  to  papa, 
Papa  lives  with  God,  'on  know ; 

Mamma  sent  me  for  a  letter ; 
Does  'on  fink  'at  I  tan  go?" 

But  the  clerk  in  wonder  answer'd, 
"  Not  to-da}',  my  little  man." 

"  Den  I'll  find  anozzer  office, 
'Cause  I  must  do  if  I  tan." 

Fain  the  clerk  would  have  detain'd  him, 
But  the  pleading  face  was  gone. 

And  the  little  feet  were  hastening,  — 
By  the  busy  crowd  swept  on. 


IN   SCHOOL    DAYS. 

Suddenl}-  the  crowd  was  parted, 
People  fled  to  left  and  right, 

As  a  pair  of  madden'd  horses 
At  the  moment  dash'd  in  sight. 

No  one  saw  the  baby-figure, 
No  one  saw  the  golden  hair, 

Till  a  voice  of  frighten'd  sweetness 
Rang  out  on  the  autumn  air. 

Twas  too  late,  —  a  moment  only 
Stood  the  beauteous  vision  there  ; 

Then  the  little  face  lay  lifeless, 
Cover'd  o'er  with  golden  hair. 

Reverently  they  raised  my  darling, 
Brush'd  away  the  curls  of  gold. 

Saw  the  stamp  upon  the  forehead, 
Growing  now  so  icy  cold. 

Not  a  mark  the  face  disfigured, 
Showing  where  a  hoof  had  trod ; 

But  the  little  life  was  ended,  — 
"  Papa's  letter  "  was  with  God. 


IS  SCHOOL  DAYS. 

J.  G.  Whittier. 

Still  sits  the  school-house  by  the  road, 

A  ragged  beggar  sunning  ; 
Around  it  still  the  sumachs  grow. 

And  blackberry  vines  are  running. 

Within,  the  master's  desk  is  seen, 
Deep  scarr'd  by  raps  official ; 

The  warping  floor,  the  batter'd  seats, 
The  jack-knife's  carved  initial ; 


509 


510  CHOICE    READINGS. 

The  charcoal  frescoes  on  its  wall ; 

Its  door's  worn  sill,  betraying 
The  feet  that,  creeping  slow  to  school, 

Went  storming  out  to  playing. 

Long  years  ago,  a  winter  Sun 

Shone  over  it  at  setting. 
Lit  up  its  western  window-panes, 

And  low  eaves'  icy  fretting. 

It  touch'd  the  tangled  golden  curls, 
And  brown  e3es,  full  of  grieving, 

Of  one  who  still  her  steps  delay'd 
When  all  the  school  were  ieaving. 

For  near  her  stood  the  little  boy 
Her  childish  favour  singled. 

His  cap  puU'd  low  upon  a  face 

Where  pride  and  shame  were  mingled. 

Pushing  with  restless  feet  the  snow 
To  right  and  left,  he  linger'd  ; 

As  restlessly  her  tiny  hands 

The  blue-check'd  apron  finger'd. 

He  saw  her  lift  her  e^'es ;  he  felt 
The  soft  hands'  light  caressing. 

And  heard  the  tremble  of  her  voice, 
As  if  a  fault  confessing,  — 

'^  I'm  sorry  that  I  spelt  the  word  : 

I  hate  to  go  above  you, 
Because,"  —  the  brown  eyes  lower  fell,  - 

"  Because,  30U  see,  I  love  you  !  " 

Still  memory  to  a  gra3'-hair'd  man 
That  sweet  child-face  is  showing. 

Dear  girl !    the  grasses  on  her  grave 
Have  fort}^  ^ears  been  growing. 


somebody's  mother.  yll 

He  lives  to  leani  in  life's  hard  schooL 

How  few  who  pass  above  him 
Lament  tlieir  triumph  and  his  loss, 

Like  her,  —  because  tliey  love  hiiu. 


SOMEBODY'S   MOTHER. 

The  woman  was  old  and  ragged  and  gray, 
And  bent  with  the  chill  of  the  Winter's  day; 
The  street  was  wet  with  a  recent  snow, 
And  the  woman's  feet  were  ag6d  and  slow. 

She  stood  at  the  crossing,  and  waited  long, 
Alone,  uncared-for,  amid  the  throng 
Of  human  beings  who  pass'd  her  by. 
Nor  heeded  the  glance  of  her  anxious  eye. 

Down  the  street,  with  laughter  and  shout, 
Glad  in  the  freedom  of  ''  school  let  out," 
Came  the  boys  like  a  flock  of  sheep. 
Hailing  the  snow  piled  white  and  deep. 

Past  the  woman  so  old  and  gray 
Hasten'd  the  children  on  their  way, 
Nor  offer' d  a  helping  hand  to  her,  — 
So  meek,  so  timid,  afraid  to  stir, 

Lest  the  carriage-wheels  or  the  horses'  feet 
Should  crowd  her  down  in  the  slippery  street, 
At  last  came  one  of  the  merry  troop, — 
The  gayest  laddie  of  all  the  group  ; 

He  paused  beside  her,  and  whisper'd  low, 
"I'll  help  you  across  if  you  wish  to  go." 
Her  ag^d  hand  on  his  strong  young  arm 
She  placed,  and  so,  without  hurt  or  harm, 


512  CHOICE   READINGS. 

He  guided  the  trembling  feet  along, 
Proud  that  his  own  were  firm  and  strong ; 
Then  back  again  to  his  friends  he  went, 
His  3'oung  heart  happy  and  well  content. 

"  She's  somebody's  mother,  boys,  you  know, 
For  all  she's  ag^d  and  poor  and  slow  ; 
And  I  hope  some  fellow  will  lend  a  hand 
To  help  my  mother,  you  understand, 

If  ever  she's  poor  and  old  and  gray, 

When  her  own  dear  boy  is  far  away." 

And  "  somebody's  mother"  bow'd  low  her  head 

In  her  home  that  night,  and  the  prayer  she  said 

Was,  "  God,  be  kind  to  the  noble  boy. 

Who  is  somebod^^'s  son  and  pride  and  joy  !  " 


oJ»<c 


TO  WHOM  SHALL  WE   GIVE  THANKS? 

A  LITTLE  boy  had  sought  the  pump 

From  whence  the  sparkling  water  burst, 
And  drank  with  eager  joy  the  draught 

That  kindh'  quench'd  his  raging  thirst : 
Then  gracefully  he  touch'd  his  cap,  — 

"I  thank  you,  Mr.  Pump,"  he  said, 
"  For  this  nice  drink  you've  given  me  !  " 

(This  little  boy  had  been  well  bred.) 

Then  said  the  Pump,  "  My  little  man, 

You're  welcome  to  what  I  have  done ; 
But  I  am  not  the  one  to  thank,  — 

I  only  help  the  water  run." 
"  O,  then,"  the  little  fellow  said, 

(Polite  he  always  meant  to  be,) 
"  Cold  Water,  please  accept  my  thanks ; 

You  have  been  very  kind  to  me." 


TO    WHOM    SHALL    WE    GIVE    THANKS?  513 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Cold  Water,  "  don't  thank  me  ; 

Far  up  the  hill-side  lives  the  Spring 
That  sends  me  forth  with  generous  hand 

To  gladden  every  living  thing." 
"  I'll  thank  the  Spring,  then,"  said  the  boy, 

And  gracefull}-  he  bow'd  his  head. 
"  O,  don't  thank  me,  my  little  man," 

The  Spring  with  silvery  accents  said,  — 

"0,  don't  thank  me  ;  for  what  am  I 

Without  the  dew  and  summer  rain  ? 
Without  their  aid  I  ne'er  could  quench 

Your  thirst,  my  little  boy,  again." 
"O,  well,  then,"  said  the  little  boy, 

"  I'll  gladly  thank  the  Rain  and  Dew." 
"  Pray,  don't  thank  us  ;  without  the  Sun 

We  could  not  fill  one  cup  for  you." 

"  Then,  Mr.  Sun,  ten  thousand  thanks 

For  all  that  you  have  done  for  me." 
"  Stop  !  "  said  the  Sun,  with  blushing  face  ; 

"  My  little  fellow,  don't  thank  me  : 
'Twas  from  the  ocean's  mighty  stores 

I  drew  the  draught  I  gave  to  thee." 
"  O,  Ocean,  thanks,  then  !  "  said  the  boy  ; 

It  echo'd  back,  "  Not  unto  me,  — 

Not  unto  me  ;  but  unto  Him 

Who  form'd  the  depths  in  which  I  lie ; 
Go,  give  thy  thanks,  my  little  bo}'. 

To  Him  who  will  thy  wants  supply." 
The  boy  took  off  his  cap,  and  said, 

In  tones  so  gentle  and  subdued, 
"  O  God,  I  thank  Thee  for  this  gift ; 

Thou  art  the  Giver  of  all  good." 


514  CHOICE    READINGS. 


YOU  PUT  m   PLOWEKS  ON  MY  PAPA'S  GRAVE. 

C.  E.  L.  Holmes. 

With  sable-draped  banners,  and  slow  measured  tread, 
The  flower-laden  ranks  pass  the  gates  of  the  dead ; 
And,  seeking  each  mound  where  a  comrade's  form  rests, 
Leave  tear-bedew'd  garlands  to  bloom  on  his  breast. 

Ended  at  last  is  the  labour  of  love : 
Once  more  through  the  gateway  the  sadden'd  lines  move ; 
A  wailing  of  anguish,  a  sobbing  of  grief, 
Falls  low  on  the  ear  of  the  battle-scarr'd  chief  : 
Close  crouch'd  by  the  portals,  a  sunny-hair'd  child 
Besought  him  in  accents  which  grief  render'd  wild : 

"  O  sir !  he  was  good,  and  they  say  he  died  brave ; 

Why,  why  did  you  pass  by  my  dear  papa's  grave  ? 

I  know  he  was  poor,  but  as  kind  and  as  true 

As  ever  march'd  into  the  battle  with  you ; 

His  grave  is  so  humble,  no  stone  marks  the  spot. 

You  may  not  have  seen  it ;  O,  say  you  did  not ! 

For  my  poor  heart  will  break  if  you  knew  he  was  there. 

And  thought  him  too  lowly  your  offerings  to  share. 

He  didn't  die  lowly,  —  he  pour'd  his  heart's  blood. 

In  rich  crimson  streams,  from  the  top-crowning  sod 

Of  the  breastworks  which  stood  in  front  of  the  fight,  — 

And  died  shouting,  '  Onward  !  for  God  and  the  right ! ' 

O'er  all  his  dead  comrades  your  bright  garlands  wave. 

But  you  haven't  put  one  on  my  papa's  grave. 

If  mamma  were  here,  —  but  she  lies  by  his  side; 

Her  wearied  heart  broke  when  our  dear  papa  died." 

"  Battalion !  file  left !  countermarch !  "  cried  the  chief, 

"  This  young  orphan'd  maid  hath  full  cause  for  her  grief.' 

Then  up  in  his  arms  from  the  hot,  dusty  street, 

He  lifted  the  maiden,  while  in  through  the  gate 

The  long  line  repasses,  and  many  an  eye 

Pays  fresh  ti'ibute  of  tears  to  the  lone  orphan's  sigh. 

"  This  way  it  is,  —  here,  sir,  —  right  under  this  tree  j 
They  lie  close  together,  with  just  room  for  me." 


THE    BUTTERFLY  S    BALL. 

"Halt!     Cover  with  roses  each  lowly  green  inouiirl; 

A  love  pure  as  this  makes  these  graves  hallow'd  ground.' 

"  O  !  thank  you,  kind  sirl  I  ne'er  can  repay 
The  kindness  you've  shown  little  Daisy  to-day ; 
But  I'll  pray  for  you  here,  each  day  while  I  live, 
'Tis  all  that  a  poor  soldier's  orphan  can  give. 
1  shall  see  papa  soon,  and  dear  mamma  too,  — 
I  dream 'd  so  last  night,  and  I  know  'twill  come  true; 
And  they  both  will  bless  you,  I  know,  when  I  say 
How  you  folded  your  arms  round  their  dear  one  to-day ; 
How  you  cheer'd  her  sad  heart,  and  soothed  it  to  rest. 
And  hush'd  its  wild  throbs  on  your  strong  noble  breast; 
And,  when  the  kind  angels  shall  call  you  to  come, 
We'll  welcome  you  then  to  our  beautiful  home, 
Where  death  never  comes,  his  black  banners  to  wave, 
And  the  beautiful  flowers  ne'er  weep  o'er  a  grave." 

THE  BUTTERFLY'S   BALL. 

Thomas  Roscoe. 

Come,  take  up  your  hats,  and  away  let  us  haste 
To  the  butterfly's  ball  and  the  grasshopper's  feast ; 
The  trumpeter  gadfly  has  summon'd  the  crew, 
And  the  revels  are  uow  onl}-  waiting  for  3'ou. 

On  the  smooth-shaven  grass  by  the  side  of  the  wood, 
Beneath  a  broad  oak  that  for  ages  has  stood, 
See  the  children  of  earth  and  the  tenants  of  air 
For  an  evening's  amusement  together  repair. 

A.nd  there  came  the  beetle,  so  blind  and  so  black, 
Who  carried  the  emmet,  his  friend,  on  his  back  ; 
And  there  was  the  gnat,  and  the  dragonfly  too, 
With  all  their  relations,  green,  orange,  and  blue. 

And  there  came  the  moth,  in  his  plumage  of  down, 
And  the  hornet,  with  jacket  of  yellow  and  brown. 


;i5 


516  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Who  with  him  the  wasp,  his  companion,  did  bring ; 
But  they  promised  that  evening  to  lay  b}-  their  sting. 

And  the  sly  little  dormouse  crept  out  of  his  hole. 
And  led  to  the  feast  his  blind  brother  the  mole  ; 
And  the  snail,  with  his  horns  peeping  out  from  his  shelL, 
Came  from  a  great  distance,  — the  length  of  an  ell. 

A  mushroom  their  table,  and  on  it  was  laid 
A  water-dock  leaf,  which  a  tablecloth  made  ; 
The  viands  were  various,  to  each  of  their  taste, 
And  the  bee  brought  his  honey  to  crown  the  repast. 

There,  close  on  his  haunches,  so  solemn  and  wise. 
The  frog  from  a  corner  look'd  up  to  the  skies ; 
And  the  squirrel,  well  pleased  such  diversion  to  see, 
Sat  cracking  his  nuts  overhead  in  the  tree. 

Then  out  came  the  spider,  with  fingers  so  fine, 
To  show  his  dexterity  on  the  tight  line; 
F'rom  one  branch  to  another  his  cobwebs  he  slung, 
Then  as  quick  as  an  arrow  he  darted  along. 

But  just  in  the  middle,  O,  shocking  to  tell ! 

From  his  rope  in  an  instant  poor  Harlequin  fell ; 

Yet  he  touch'd  not  the  ground,  but  with  talons  outspread, 

Hung  suspended  in  air  at  the  end  of  a  thread. 

Then  the  grasshopper  came  with  a  jerk  and  a  spring, 
Very  long  was  his  leg,  though  but  short  was  his  wing ; 
He  took  but  three  leaps,  and  was  soon  out  of  sight. 
Then  chirp'd  his  own  praises  the  rest  of  the  night. 

With  step  so  majestic  the  snail  did  advance. 

And  promised  the  gazers  a  minuet  to  dance  ; 

But  they  all  laugh'd  so  loud  that  he  pull'd  in  his  head, 

And  went  to  his  own  little  chamber  to  bed. 


THE  SMACK  IN  SCHOOL.  517 

THE  SMACK  IN  SCHOOL. 

W.  p.  Palmer. 

A  DISTRICT  school,  not  far  away, 

'Mid  Berkshire  hills,  one  Winter's  day, 

Was  humming  Avith  its  wonted  noise 

Of  three-score  mingled  girls  and  boys ; 

Some  few  upon  their  tasks  intent. 

But  more  on  fui-tive  mischief  bent. 

The  while  the  master's  downward  look 

Was  fasten'd  on  a  copy-book  ; 

When  suddenly,  behind  his  back, 

Rose  sharp  and  clear  a  rousing  smack, 

As  'twere  a  battery  of  bliss 

Let  off  in  one  tremendous  kiss  ! 

"  What's  that?  "  the  startled  master  cries i 

"That,  thir,"  a  little  imp  replies, 

"  Wath  William  Willeth,  if  you  pleathe; 

I  thaw  him  kith  Thuthanna  Peathe  ! " 

With  frown  to  make  a  statue  thrill, 

The  master  thunder'd,  "  Hither,  Will !  " 

Like  wretch  o'ertaken  in  his  track 

With  stolen  chattels  on  his  back, 

Will  hung  his  head  in  fear  and  shame, 

And  to  the  awful  presence  came,  — 

A  great,  green,  bashful  simpleton, 

The  butt  of  all  good-natured  fun. 

With  smile  suppress'd,  and  birch  upraised, 

The  threatener  falter'd  :  "  I'm  amazed 

That  you,  my  biggest  pupil,  should 

Be  guilty  of  an  act  so  rude  ! 

Before  the  whole  set  school  to  boot ; 

What  evil  genius  put  you  to't  ?  " 

"  'Twas  she,  herself,  sir,"  sobb'd  the  lad? 

"  1  did  not  mean  to  be  so  bad  : 

But,  when  Susannah  shook  her  curls, 

And  whisper'd,  I  was  'fraid  of  girls, 


518  CHOICE    READINGS. 

And  dursn't  kiss  a  baby's  doll, 

I  couldn't  stand  it,  sir,  at  all, 

But  up  and  kiss'd  hei*  on  the  spot ! 

I  know  —  boo-hoo  —  I  ought  to  not. 

But,  somehow,  from  her  looks  —  boo-hoo  — 

I  thought  she  kind  o'  wish'd  me  to  !  " 

MAEGAEET   GEAT. 

Charles  Lamb. 

It  was  noontide.  The  sun  was  verj-  hot.  An  old  gentle- 
woman sat  spinning  in  a  little  arbour  at  the  door  of  her  cot- 
tage. She  was  blind  ;  and  her  grand-daughter  was  reading 
the  Bible  to  her.  The  old  lady  had  just  left  her  work,  to 
attend  to  the  story  of  Ruth. 

"  Orpah  kissed  her  mother-in-law;  but  Ruth  clave  unto 
her."  It  was  a  passage  she  could  not  let  pass  without  a 
comment.  The  moral  she  drew  from  it  was  not  very  new,  to 
be  sure.  The  girl  had  heard  it  a  hundred  times  before  ;  and 
a  hundred  times  more  she  could  have  heard  it,  without  sus- 
pecting it  to  be  tedious.  Rosamund  loved  her  grand- 
mother. 

The  old  lady  loved  Rosamund  too  ;  and  she  had  reason 
for  so  doing.  Rosamund  was  to  her  at  once  a  child  and  a 
servant.  She  had  only  her  left  in  the  world.  They  two 
lived  together. 

They  had  once  known  better  days.  The  story  of  Rosa- 
mund's parents,  their  failure,  their  folly  and  distresses,  may 
be  told  another  time.     Our  tale  hath  grief  enough  in  it. 

It  was  now  about  a  year  and  a  half  since  old  Margaret 
Gray  had  sold  off  all  her  effects,  to  pay  the  debts  of  Rosa- 
mund's father, — just  after  the  mother  had  died  of  a  broken 
heart ;  for  her  husband  had  fled  his  country,  to  hide  his 
shame  in  a  foreign  land.  At  that  period  the  old  lady 
retired  to  a  small  cottage  in  the  village  of  Widford  in  Hert- 
fordshire. 

Rosamund,   in    her    thirteenth  year,    was   left   destitute. 


MARGARET    GRAY.  519 

without  fortune  or  friends  :  she  went  with  her  grandmother. 
In  all  this  time  she  had  served  her  faithfully  and  lovingly. 

Old  Margaret  Gray,  when  she  first  came  into  these  parts, 
had  eyes,  and  could  see.  The  neighbours  said  they  had  been 
dimmed  by  weeping :  be  that  as  it  may,  she  was  latterly 
grown  quite  blind.  "  God  is  very  good  to  us,  child  ;  I  can 
feel  30U  yet."  This  she  would  sometimes  say  ;  and  we  need 
not  wonder  to  hear  that  Rosamund  clave  unto  her  grand- 
mother. 

Margaret  retained  a  spirit  unbroken  by  calamity.  There 
was  a  principle  within,  which  it  seemed  as  if  no  outward 
circumstance  could  reach.  It  was  religious  principle  ;  and 
she  had  taught  it  to  Rosamund  ;  for  the  girl  had  mostly 
resided  with  her  grandmother  from  her  earliest  years.  In- 
deed she  had  taught  her  all  that  she  knew  herself ;  and  the 
old  lady's  knowledge  did  not  extend  a  vast  wa}'. 

Their  library  consisted  chiefly  in  a  large  family  Bible, 
with  notes  and  expositions  by  various  learned  expositors, 
from  Bishop  Jewell  downwards. 

This  might  never  be  suffered  to  lie  about  like  other  books, 
but  was  kept  constantly  wrapt  in  a  handsome  case  of  green 
velvet,  with  gold  tassels,  —  the  onl}'  relic  of  departed  gran- 
deur they  had  brought  with  them  to  the  cottage  ;  every  thing 
else  of  value  had  been  sold  off  for  the  purpose  above  men- 
tioned. * 

This  Bible  Rosamund,  when  a  child,  had  never  dared  to 
open  without  permission  ;  and  even  yet,  from  habit,  contin- 
ued the  custom.  Margaret  had  parted  with  none  of  her 
authoritj- ;  indeed  it  was  never  exerted  with  much  harshness  ; 
and  happy  was  Rosamund,  though  a  girl  grown,  when  she 
could  obtain  leave  to  read  her  Bible.  It  was  a  treasure  too 
valuable  for  indiscriminate  use  ;  and  Margaret  still  pointed 
out  to  her  grand-daughter  where  to  read. 

Rosamund's  mind  was  pensive  and  reflective,  rather  than 
what  passes  usuall}^  foi  clever  or  acute.  From  a  child  she 
was  remarkably  shy  and  thoughtful :  this  was  taken  for  stu- 
pidity and  want  of  feeling  ;  and  the  child  has  been  sometimes 


520  CHOICE    READINGS. 

whipt  for  being  a  stubborn  thing,  when  her  little  heart  was 
almost  Inirsting  with  affection. 

Even  now  her  grandmother  wonld  often  reprove  her,  when 
she  found  her  too  grave  and  melancholy  ;  give  her  sprightly' 
lectures  about  good-humour  and  rational  mirth ;  and  not 
unfreqnently  fall  a-cr3'ing  herself,  to  the  great  discredit  of 
her  lecture.  Those  tears  endeared  her  the  more  to  Rosa- 
mund. 

Margaret  would  say,  ''Child,  I  love  you  to  cry,  when  I 
think  you  are  only  remembering  jour  poor  dear  father  and 
mother :  1  would  have  you  think  about  them  sometimes,  — 
it  would  be  strange  if  you  did  not ;  but  I  fear,  Rosamund,  — 
I  fear,  girl,  you  sometimes  think  too  deepl}-  about  3'our  own 
situation  and  poor  prospects  in  life.  "When  you  do  so,  you 
do  wrong :  remember  the  naughty  rich  man  in  the  parable. 
He  never  had  any  good  thoughts  about  God  and  His  religion  ; 
and  that  might  have  been  j'our  case." 

Rosamund,  at  these  times,  could  not  reply  to  her :  she 
was  not  in  the  habit  of  arguing  with  her  grandmother :  so 
she  was  quite  silent  on  these  occasions ;  or  else  the  girl 
knew  well  enough  herself  that  she  had  oul}-  been  sad  to  think 
of  the  desolate  condition  of  her  best  friend,  to  see  her,  in 
her  old  age,  so  infirm  and  blind.  But  she  had  never  been 
used  to  make  excuses  when  the  old  lady  said  she  was  doing 
wrong. 

The  neighbours  were  all  very  kind  to  them.  The  veriest 
rustics  never  passed  them  without  a  bow,  or  a  pulling-off  of 
the  hat,  some  show  of  courtesy,  awkward  indeed,  l)ut  affec- 
tionate,—  with  a  "Good-morrow,  madam,"  or  "young 
madam."  as  it  might  happen. 

Rude  and  savage  natures,  who  seem  born  with  a  propen- 
sity to  express  contempt  for  any  thing  that  looks  like  pros- 
perity, yet  felt  respect  for  its  declining  lustre. 

The  farmers,  and  better  sort  of  people,  (as  they  are 
called,)  all  promised  to  provide  for  Rosamund  when  her 
grandmother  should  die.  Margaret  trusted  in  God,  and 
believed  them. 


BETTER   IN   THE    MORNING.  521 

She  used  to  say,  "  I  have  lived  man}-  yesus  iu  the  world, 
and  have  never  known  people,  good  2^fople.  to  be  left  with- 
out some  friend ;  a  relation,  a  benefactor,  or  something. 
God  knows  our  wants ;  that  it  is  not  good  for  man  or 
woman  to  be  alone  :  and  He  alwa3-s  sends  us  a  helpmate,  a 
leaning-place,  a  someivhat."  Upon  this  sure  ground  of 
experience  did  Margaret  build  her  trust  in  Providence. 


BETTER  IN  THE  MOENING. 

Leander  S.  Coan. 

"You  can't  lielp  the  baby,  parson, 

But  still  I  want  ye  to  go 
Down  and  look  in  upon  her. 

An'  read  an'  pray,  you  know. 
Only  last  week  she  was  skipi)ing  around 

A-pullin'  my  whiskers  'u'  hair, 
A-climbin'  up  to  tlie  table 

Into  her  little  high  chair. 

The  first  night  that  she  took  it, 

When  her  little  cheeks  grew  red, 
When  she  kiss'd  good  night  to  papa, 

And  went  away  to  bed,  — 
Sez  she,   '  'Tis  headache,  papa, 

Be  better  in  mornin',  — b^'e' ; 
An'  somethin'  in  how  she  said  it 

Jest  made  me  want  to  cry. 

But  the  mornin'  brought  the  fever, 

And  her  little  hands  were  hot. 
An'  the  pretty  red  uv  her  little  cheeks 

Grew  into  a  crimson  spot. 
But  she  laid  there  jest  ez  patient 

Ez  ever  a  woman  could, 
Taking  whatever  we  give  her 

Better'n  a  grown  woman  would. 


522  CHOICE    READINGS. 

The  days  are  terrible  long  an'  slow, 

An'  she's  growin'  wus  in  each ; 
An'  now  she's  jest  a  slippin' 

Clear  away  out  uv  our  reach. 
Every  night  when  I  kiss  her, 

Try  in'  hard  not  to  cry, 
She  says  in  a  way  that  kills  me, 

'  Be  better  in  mornin',  —  bye  ! ' 

She  can't  get  through  the  night,  parson : 

So  I  want  ye  to  come  an'  pra}'. 
And  talk  with  mother  a  little,  — 

You'll  know  jest  what  to  say  : 
Not  that  the  baby  needs  it, 

Nor  that  we  make  any  complaint 
That  God  seems  to  think  He's  needin* 

The  smile  uv  the  little  saint." 


I  walk'd  along  with  the  corporal 

To  the  door  of  his  humble  home, 
To  which  the  silent  messenger 

Before  me  had  also  come  ; 
And,  if  he  had  been  a  titled  prince, 

I  would  not  have  been  liouour'd  more 
Than  I  was  with  his  heartfelt  welcome 

To  his  lowly  cottage  door. 

Night  falls  again  in  the  cottage  ; 

The}'  move  in  silence  and  dread 
Around  the  room  where  the  baby 

Lies  panting  upon  her  bed. 
"  Does  baby  know  papa,  darling?  " 

And  she  moved  her  little  face 
"With  answer  that  shows  she  knows  him ; 

But  scarce  a  visible  trace 

Of  her  wonderful  infantile  beaut}'^ 

Remains  as  it  was  before : 
The  unseen  silent  messenger 

Had  waited  at  the  door. 
"Papa  —  kiss  —  baby  ;  —  I's  —  so  —  tired.' 

The  man  bows  low  his  face, 
And  two  swollen  hands  are  lifted 

In  baby's  last  embrace. 


TAME    HARES.  523 

And  into  her  father's  grizzled  beard 

The  little  red  fingers  cling, 
While  her  husk}-  whisper'd  tenderness 

Tears  from  a  I'oek  would  wring, 
"  Baby — is — so — sick  —  papa, — 

But — don't —  want — you  —  to  —  cr}' : " 
The  little  hands  fall  on  the  coverlet,  — 

"Be  -  better — in moruin' , bye ! ' ' 

And  night  around  baby  is  falling, 

Settling  down  dark  and  dense  ; 
Does  God  need  their  darling  in  Heaven 

That  He  must  carry  her  hence  ? 
I  pray'd,  with  teal's  in  my  voice. 

As  the  corporal  solemnly  knelt 
With  such  grief  as  never  before 

His  great  warm  heart  had  felt. 

O  frivolous  men  and  women  ! 

Do  you  know  that  around  you,  and  nigh, 
Alike  from  the  humble  and  haughty 

Goeth  up  ever  more  the  cry  : 
"  My  child,  my  precious,  my  darling, 

How  can  I  let  you  die  ?  ' ' 
O  1  hear  ye  the  white  lips  whisper, 

"Be  -  better  —  in mornin' b^^e  ! " 


Jj»^c 


TAME    HAEES. 

William  Cowper. 

The  children  of  a  neighbour  of  mine  had  a  leveret  given 
them  for  a  plaything ;  it  was  at  that  time  about  three  months 
old.  Soon  becoming  weary  of  their  charge,  they  readily  con- 
sented that  their  father  should  offer  it  to  my  acceptance. 

I  was  willing  enough  to  take  the  prisoner  under  my  pro- 
tection, perceiving  that  in  the  management  of  such  an  animal 
and  in  the  attempt  to  tame  it,  I  should  find  just  that  sort  of 
employment  which  my  case  required.  It  was  soon  known 
among  the  neighbours  that  I  was  pleased  with  the  present ; 
and  the  consequence  was  that  in  a  short  time  I  had  as  many 


524  CHOICE    READINGS. 

leverets  offered  to  me  as  would  have  stocked  a  paddock.  I 
undertook  the  care  of  three,  called  Puss,  Tiney,  and  Bess. 
Immediately  commencing  to  carpenter,  I  built  them  houses  to 
sleep  in,  so  contrived  that  they  were  kept  perfectly  sweet 
and  clean.  In  the  day-time  they  had  the  range  of  a  hall, 
and  at  night  retired  each  to  his  own  bed,  never  intruding 
into  that  of  another. 

Puss  grew  presently  familiar,  would  leap  into  my  lap,  raise 
himself  upon  his  hinder  feet,  and  bite  the  hair  from  my  tem- 
ples. He  would  suffer  me  to  take  him  up,  and  to  carry  him 
about  in  my  arms,  and  has  more  than  once  fallen  fast  asleep 
upon  m}'  knee.  He  was  ill  three  days,  during  which  time  I 
nursed  him,  kept  him  apart  from  his  fellows,  that  they  might 
not  molest  him,  (for,  like  many  other  wild  animals,  they  per- 
secute one  of  their  own  species  that  is  sick,)  and  by  constant 
care,  and  trying  him  with  a  variety  of  herbs,  restored  him  to 
perfect  health. 

No  creature  could  be  more  grateful  than  my  patient  after 
his  recovery,  a  sentiment  which  he  expressed  by  licking  my 
hand,  first  the  back  of  it.  then  the  palm,  then  every  finger 
separately,  then  between  all  the  fingers  ;  a  ceremony  which 
he  never  performed  but  once  again  upon  a  similar  occasion. 
Finding  him  extremely  tractaV)le,  I  made  it  my  custom  to 
carry  him  always  after  breakfast  into  the  garden,  where  he 
hid  himself  generally  under  the  leaves  of  a  cucumber-vine, 
sleeping  or  chewing  the  cud  till  evening ;  in  the  leaves  also 
of  that  vine  he  found  a  favourite  repast.  I  had  not  long 
habituated  him  to  this  state  of  liberty  before  he  began  to  be 
impatient  for  the  return  of  tlie  time  when  he  might  enjo}'  it. 
He  would  invite  me  to  the  garden  by  drumming  upon  my 
knee,  and  by  a  look  of  such  expression  as  it  was  not  possible 
to  misinterpret.  If  this  rhetoric  did  not  immediately  suc- 
ceed, he  would  take  the  skirt  of  my  coat  between  his  teeth 
and  pull  it  with  all  his  force.  Thus  Puss  might  be  said  to 
be  perfectly  tamed,  the  shyness  of  his  nature  was  done  away, 
and  on  the  whole  it  was  visible,  by  man}'  symptoms  which  I 


TAME    HARES.  525 

have  not  room  to  enumerate,  that  he  was  happier  in  human 
society  than  wlien  shut  up  with  his  natural  companions. 

Not  so  Tinoy  ;  upon  liim  the  kindest  treatment  had  not  tlie 
least  effect.  He,,  too,  was  sick,  and  in  his  sickness  had  an 
equal  share  of  my  attention  ;  but  if,  after  his  recover}*,  I 
took  the  liberty  to  stroke  him,  he  would  grunt,  strike  with 
his  fore-feet,  spring  forward,  and  bite.  He  was,  however, 
ver}'  entertainiug  in  his  way  ;  even  his  surliness  was  matter 
of  mirth  ;  and  in  his  play  he  preserved  such  an  air  of  gravity, 
and  performed  his  feats  with  such  a  solemnitj^  of  manner, 
that  in  him,  too,  I  had  an  agreeable  companion. 

Bess,  who  died  soon  after  he  was  full  grown,  and  whose 
death  was  occasioned  by  his  being  turned  into  his  box,  which 
had  been  washed,  while  it  was  yet  damp,  was  a  hare  of  great 
humour  and  drollery.  Puss  was  tamed  by  gentle  usage ; 
Tiuey  was  not  to  be  tamed  at  all ;  and  Bess  had  a  courage 
and  confidence  that  made  him  tame  from  the  beginning.  I 
always  admitted  them  into  the  parlour  after  supper,  when, 
the  carpet  affording  their  feet  a  firm  hold,  the}'  would  frisk, 
and  bound,  and  play  a  thousand  gambols,  in  which  Bess, 
being  remarkably  strong  and  fearless,  was  always  superior  to 
the  rest.  One  evening  the  cat,  being  in  the  room,  had  the 
hardiness  to  pat  Bess  upon  the  cheek,  an  indignity  which  he 
resented  by  drumming  upon  her  back  with  such  violence, 
that  the  cat  was  happy  to  escape  fx'om  under  his  paws  and 
hide  herself. 

I  describe  these  animals  as  having  each  a  character  of  his 
own.  Such  they  were,  in  fact,  and  their  countenances  were 
so  expressive  of  that  character,  that  when  I  looked  only  on 
the  face  of  either,  I  immediately  knew  which  it  was.  It  is 
said  that  a  shepherd,  however  numerous  his  flock,  soon  be- 
comes so  familiar  with  their  features,  that  he  can  distinguish 
each  from  all  the  rest,  and  yet,  to  a  common  observer,  the 
difference  is  hardl}'  perceptible.  I  doubt  not  that  the  same 
discrimination  in  the  cast  of  countenances  would  be  discov- 
erable in  hares,  and  am  persuaded  that  among  a  thousand  of 
them  no  two  could  be  found  exactlj-  similar.    These  creatures 


526  CHOICE    READINGS. 

have  a  singular  sagacity  in  discovering  tlie  minutest  altera- 
tion tliat  is  made  in  the  place  to  which  they  are  accustomed, 
and  instantly  apply  their  nose  to  the  examination  of  a  new 
object.  A  small  hole  being  burnt  in  the  carpet,  it  was 
mended  with  a  patch,  and  that  patch  in  a  moment  underwent 
the  strictest  scrutiny. 

They  seem  too  to  be  very  much  directed  by  the  smell 
in  the  choice  of  their  favourites  ;  to  some  persons,  though 
they  saw  them  daily,  they  could  never  be  reconciled,  and 
would  even  scream  when  the}'  attempted  to  touch  them ;  but 
a  miller  coming  in  engaged  their  affections  at  once  ;  his  pow- 
dered coat  had  claims  that  were  irresistible.  It  is  no  wonder 
that  ray  intimate  acquaintance  with  these  specimens  of  the 
kind  has  taught  me  to  hold  the  sportsman's  amusement  in 
abhorrence  :  he  little  knows  what  amiable  creatures  he  perse- 
cutes, of  what  gratitude  they  are  capable,  how  cheerful  they 
are  in  their  spirits,  what  enjoyment  they  have  of  life  ;  and 
that,  impressed  as  the}'  seem  with  a  peculiar  dread  of  man,  it 
is  only  because  man  gives  them  peculiar  cause  for  it. 

Bess,  I  have  said,  died  young ;  Tiney  lived  to  be  nine 
years  old,  and  died  at  last,  I  have  reason  to  think,  of  some 
hurt  in  his  loins  by  a  fall ;  Puss  is  still  living,  and  has  just 
completed  his  tenth  year,  discovering  no  signs  of  decay,  nor 
even  of  age,  except  that  he  has  grown  more  discreet  and  less 
frolicsome  than  he  was.  I  cannot  conclude  without  observ- 
ing that  I  liaA^e  lately  introduced  a  dog  to  his  acquaintance, 
a  spaniel  that  had  never  seen  a  hare,  to  a  hare  that  had  never 
seen  spaniel.  I  did  it  with  great  caution,  but  there  was  no 
real  need  of  it ;  Puss  discovered  no  token  of  fear,  nor  Mar- 
quis the  least  symptom  of  hostility'.  There  is,  therefore,  it 
should  seem,  no  natural  antipathy  between  dog  and  hare, 
but  the  pursuit  of  the  one  occasions  the  flight  of  the  other, 
and  the  dog  pursues  because  he  is  trained  to  it ;  the}'  eat 
bread  at  the  same  time  out  of  the  same  hand,  and  are  in  all 
respects  sociable  and  friendly. 


RATS.  527 


BATS. 

Jane  Loudon. 

A  WHITE  rat  having  been  caught  in  some  stables,  and  be- 
ing from  its  colour  thought  a  great  curiosity,  it  was  brought 
to  a  gentleman  who  was  known  to  take  great  interest  in  ani- 
mals. At  first  it  was  very  savage,  and  tried  to  bite  when 
left  loose.  It  was  therefore  put  into  a  turning  squirrel-cage, 
and  for  two  or  three  days  kept  short  of  food  and  allowed 
none  that  it  would  not  take  out  of  its  owner's  hand.  At  first 
it  snapped  and  tried  to  bite  through  the  wires,  but  soon 
learned  to  know  his  voice,  and  came  out  on  hearing  it ;  but 
usually  it  lay  hid  in  the  box  at  the  end  of  the  cage,  and 
when  its  master  took  it  out,  it  several  times  liit  him  severely. 
Finding  at  last  that  he  always  treated  it  kindly,  it  grew 
tame,  and  would  let  him  open  the  box  and  look  in,  without 
stirring.  He  could  soon  let  it  out  in  his  sitting-room,  and  it 
would  come  close  to  his  feet  to  pick  up  the  crumbs  which  he 
dropped  for  it,  and  in  a  fortnight  came  when  called,  and  ate 
sugar  from  his  hand. 

When  the  rat  was  first  brought,  his  little  white  terrier. 
Flora,  was  very  anxious  to  get  at  it  and  kill  it ;  but  their 
master,  holding  the  rat,  called  Flora,  and  showed  it  to  her. 
She  seemed  at  once  to  understand  what  he  meant,  and,  far 
from  harming  it,  thenceforward,  if  an^'  stranger  came  in 
while  it  was  loose,  she  stood  by  it,  growling  and  showing 
her  teeth,  and  the  rat  never  failed  to  run  up  to  her  for  pro- 
tection at  such  times.  There  was  a  walled  garden  behind 
the  house,  where  both  rat  and  dog  were  often  tui'ued  out  to 
pla^-  together,  which  they  did  by  a  kind  of  hide-and-seek 
among  the  flowers  ;  but  if  their  master  whistled,  there  was  at 
once  a  race  to  be  the  first  to  get  to  him. 

Scugg,  as  he  called  the  rat,  became  so  bold  that  he  would 
get  on  the  table  and  carry  off  food  to  share  with  Flora,  but, 
if  she  tried  to  get  the  first  bite,  Scugg  kept  her  in  order  by 
striking  her  on  the  nose  with  his  paw.     Flora  took  this  very 


528  CHOICE   READINGS. 

meekly,  lapped  milk  out  of  the  same  saucer  as  Scugg,  and 
slept  ou  the  rug  with  him  between  her  paws. 

Many  people  thought  that  its  strange  colour  was  the  rea- 
son that  the  dog  did  not  destroy  it,  but  this  was  proved  not 
to  be  the  case.  Another  white  rat  being  caught,  it  was  set 
free  in  the  room  where  Scugg  and  Flora  were  at  play.  Both 
the  rats  ran  round  the  room  with  Flora  after  them,  and  in  a 
moment  one  was  killed  by  the  terrier,  to  the  great  dismay  of 
her  master,  who  could  not  tell  one  rat  from  the  other,  so 
much  were  the}'  alike,  and  thought  that  perhaps  his  pet  had 
perished.  Great  was  his  joy  to  see  Scugg  run  into  a  corner, 
and  Flora  follow  to  guard  him,  and  she  stood  growling  till 
the  dead  rat  was  taken  away.  The  end  of  the  poor  rat  was 
a  sad  one.  His  master  gave  him  away,  and  he  pined  and 
moped,  and  at  last  was  found  dead  in  his  box. 


LOVE  AND   PEAYEK. 

Coleridge. 

O,  SWEETER  than  the  marriage-feast, 

'Tis  sweeter  far  to  me. 

To  walk  together  to  the  kirk, 

And  all  together  pray, 

While  each  to  his  great  Father  bends, 

Old  men,  and  babes,  and  loving  friends, 

And  youths  and  maidens  gay  ! 

Farewell,  farewell !    but  this  I  tell 
To  thee,  thou  Wedding-Guest,  — 
He  prayeth  well,  who  loveth  well 
Both  man  and  bird  and  beast : 

He  prayeth  best,  who  loveth  best 
All  things  both  great  and  small ; 
For  the  dear  God  who  loveth  us, 
He  made  and  loveth  all. 


THE    BEAUTIKUL    SNOW.  ^29 


XIII. 
DRAMATIC,   NOT   IN   THE   DRAMA, 


THE  BEAUTirUL  SNOW. 

James   W.   Watson. 

O  THE  snow,  the  beautiful  snow ! 
Filling  the  sky  and  earth  below  ! 
Over  the  house-tops,  over  the  street, 
Over  the  heads  of  the  people  you  meet, 
Dancing,  flirting,  skimming  along  : 
Beautiful  snow  !    it  can  do  no  wrong  ; 
Flying  to  kiss  a  fair  lady's  cheek. 
Clinging  to  lips  in  a  frolicsome  freak. 
Beautiful  snow  from  the  heaven  above, 
Pure  as  an  angel,  but  fickle  as  love ! 

O  the  snow,  the  beautiful  snow  ! 
How  the  flakes  gather  and  laugh  as  they  go  ! 
Whirling  about  in  their  maddening  fun 
They  play  in  their  glee  with  every  one. 

Chasing,  laughing,  hurrying  by, 
It  lights  on  the  face  and  it  sparkles  the  eye ; 
And  even  the  dogs,  with  a  bark  and  a  bound, 
Snap  at  the  crystals  that  eddy  around  ; 
The  town  is  alive  and  its  heart  in  a  glow. 
To  welcome  the  coming  of  beautiful  snow ! 

How  the  wild  crowd  goes  swaying  along, 
Hailing  each  other  with  humour  and  song  ! 
How  the  gay  sledges,  like  meteots,  flash  by, 


530  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Bright  for  a  moment,  then  lost  to  the  eye : 

Ringing,  swinging,  dashing  they  go, 
Over  the  crust  of  the  beautiful  snow  ! 
Snow  so  pure  when  it  falls  from  the  sky. 
To  be  trampled  in  mud  by  the  crowd  rushing  by  ; 
To  be  trampled  and  track 'd  by  the  thousands  of  feet, 
Till  it  blends  with  the  filth  in  the  horrible  street. 

Once  I  was  pure  as  the  snow,  —  but  I  fell ! 
Fell,  like  the  snow-flakes,  from  Heaven  to  Hell ; 
Fell  to  be  trampled  as  filth  in  the  street ; 
Fell  to  be  scoff' d,  to  be  spit  on  and  beat  ; 

Pleading,  cursing,  dreading  to  die. 
Selling  my  soul  to  whoever  would  buy  ; 
Dealing  in  shame  for  a  morsel  of  bread, 
Hatiug  the  living  and  fearing  the  dead : 
Merciful  God  !    have  I  fallen  so  low  ? 
And  yet  I  was  once  like  the  beautiful  snow. 

Once  I  was  fair  as  the  beautiful  snow, 
With  an  eye  like  its  crystal,  a  heart  like  its  glow ; 
Once  I  was  loved  for  m}-  innocent  grace, 
Flatter'd  and  sought  for  the  charms  of  my  face ! 

Father,  mother,  sisters,  all, 
God  and  mj  self ,  I  have  lost  by  my  fall ; 
And  the  veriest  wretch  that  goes  shivering  by 
Will  make  a  wide  swoop  lest  I  wander  too  nigh ; 
For  all  that  is  on  or  about  me  I  know 
There  is  nothing  that's  pure  but  the  beautiful  snow. 

How  strange  it  should  be  that  this  beautiful  suow 
Should  fall  on  a  sinner  with  nowhere  to  go  ! 
How  strange  it  should  be,  when  the  night  comes  again, 
If  the  snow  and  the  ice  strike  my  desperate  brain ; 

Fainting,  freezing,  dying  alone, 
Too  wicked  for  prayer,  too  weak  for  my  moan 
To  be  heard  in  the  crash  of  the  crazy  town, 


BERNARDO  DEL  CARPIO.  531 

Gone  mad  in  the  jo}'  of  the  snow  coming  down, 

To  lie  and  to  die  in  my  terrible  woe, 

With  a  bed  and  a  shroud  of  the  beautiful  snow ! 


BEENAEDO  DEL  OAEPIO. 

Mrs.  Hemans. 

The  warrior  bow'd  his  crested  head,  and  tamed  his  heart  of  fire, 
And  sued  the  haughty  king  to  free  his  long-imprison'd  sire  : 
"  I  bring  tliee  liere  my  fortress-keys,  I  bring  my  captive  train, 
I  pledge  thee  faith,  my  liege,  my  lord !  —  O,  break  my  father's 
chain ! " 

"  Rise,  rise  !  even  now  thy  father  comes,  a  ransom'd  man  this  day  ! 
Mount  thy  good  horse  ;  and  thou  and  I  will  meet  him  on  his  way." 
Then  lightly  rose  that  loj'al  son,  and  bounded  on  his  steed, 
And  urged,  as  if  with  lance  in  rest,  the  charger's  foamy  speed. 

And,  lo !  from  far,  as  on  they  press'd,  there  came  a  glittering  band. 
With  one  that  'midst  them  stately  rode,  as  leader  in  the  land : 
"  Now  haste,  Bernado,  haste  !  for  there,  in  very  truth,  is  he. 
The  father  whom  thy  faithful  heart  hath  yearn'd  so  long  to  see." 

His  dark  eye  fiash'd,  his  proud  breast  heaved,  his  cheek's  hue  came 
and  went ; 

He  reach'd  that  gray-hair'd  chieftain's  side,  and  there,  dismount- 
ing, bent ; 

A  lowly  knee  to  earth  he  bent,  his  father's  hand  he  took,  — 

What  was  there  in  its  touch  that  all  his  fiery  spirit  shook  ? 

That  hand  was  cold,  —  a  frozen  thing;  it  dropp'd  from  his  like 

lead! 
He  look'd  up  to  the  face  above,  —  the  face  was  of  the  dead  ! 
A  plume  waved  o'er  the  noble  brow, — the  brow  was  fix'd  and 

white : 
He  met,  at  last,  his  father's  eyes,  —  but  in  them  was  no  light ! 

Up  from  the  ground  he  sprang  and  gazed,  —  but  who  could  paint 

that  gaze  ? 
They  hush'd  their  very  hearts  that  saw  its  horror  and  amaze ; 
They  might  have  chain'd  him,  as  before  that  stony  form  he  stood ; 
For  the  power  was  stricken  from  his  arm,  and  from  his  lip  the 

blood. 


532  CHOICE    READINGS. 

"  Father!  "  at  length  he  murmur'd  low,  and  wept  like  childhood 

then: 
Talk  not  of  grief  till  thou  hast  seen  the  tears  of  warlike  men ! 
He  thought  on  all  his  hopes,  and  all  his  young  renown,  — 
He  flung  his  falchion  from  his  side,  and  in  the  dust  knelt  down. 

Then,  covering  with  his  steel-gloved  hands  his  darkly  mournful 

brow, 
"  ISTo  more,  there  is  no  more,"  he  said,  "  to  lift  the  sword  for,  now ; 
My  king  is  false,  —  my  hope  betray'd  !    My  father,  — O !  the  worth, 
The  glory  and  the  loveliness  are  pass'd  away  from  Earth ! 

I  thought  to  stand  where  banners  waved,  my  sire,  beside  thee,  yet ! 
I  would  that  there  our  kindred  blood  on  Spain's  free  soil  had  met ! 
Thou  wouldst  have  known  my  spirit,  then  :  for  thee  my  fields  were 

won ; 
And  thou   hast  perish'd  in  thy  chains,  as  though  thou  hadst  no 

son ! " 

Then,  starting  from  the   ground  once  more,  he  seized  the  mon- 
arch's rein. 
Amidst  the  pale  and  wilder'd  looks  of  all  the  courtier-train  ; 
And,  with  a  fierce,  o'ermastering  grasp,  the  rearing  warhorse  led, 
And  sternly  set  them  face  to  face,  —  the  king  before  the  dead : 

"  Came  I  not  forth,  upon  thy  pledge,  my  father's  hand  to  kiss?  — 
Be  still,  and  gaze  thou  on,  false  king !  and  tell  me,  what  is  this  ? 
The  voice,  the  glance,  the  heart  I  sought,  — give  answer,  where  are 

they? 
If  thou  wouldst  clear  thy  perjured  soul,  send  life  through  this  cold 

clay! 

Into  these  glassy  eyes  put  light ;  —  be  still !  keep  down  thine  ire  !  — 
Bid  these  white  lips  a  blessing  speak,  —  this  earth  is  not  my  sire : 
Give  me  back  him  for  whom  I  strove,  for  whom  my  blood  was 

shed ! — 
Thou  canst  not?  —  and  a  king!  —  his  dust  be  mountains  on  thy 

head !  " 

He  loosed  the  steed,  —  his  slack  hand  fell :  upon  the  silent  face 
He  cast  one  long,  deep,  troubled  look,  then  turn'd  from  that  sad 

place : 
His  hope  was  crush'd,  his  after  fate  untold  in  martial  strain : 
His  banner  led  the  spears  no  more  amidst  the  hills  of  Spain. 


COUNT    CANDESPINA's    STANDARD.  533 

COUNT   CANDESPINA'S  STANDARD. 

Geo.  H.  Boker. 

The  King  of  Aragoii  now  entered  Castile,  by  way  of  Soria  and  Osma, 
with  a  powerful  army  ;  and,  h.aviug  been  met  by  the  Queen's  forces,  both 
parties  encamped  near  Sepulveda,  and  prejiared  to  give  battle. 

This  engagement,  called,  from  the  field  where  it  took  place,  de  la  Espina, 
is  one  of  the  most  famous  of  that  age.  The  dastardly  count  of  Lara  fled  at 
the  first  shock,  and  joined  the  Queen  at  Burgos,  where  she  was  anxiously 
awaiting  the  issue;  but  the  brave  Count  of  Candespina  stood  his  ground  to 
the  last,  and  died  on  the  field  of  battle.  His  standard-bearer,  a  gentleman 
of  the  house  of  Olea,  after  having  his  horse  killed  under  him,  and  both 
hands  cut  off  by  sabre-strokes,  fell  beside  his  master,  still  clasping  the 
standard  in  his  arms,  and  repeating  his  war-cry  of  "  Olea!  "  —  Annals  oj 
the  Queens  of  Spain. 

Scarce  were  the  splinter'd  lances  dropp'd, 
Scarce  were  the  swords  drawn  out, 

Ere  recreant  Lara,  sick  with  fear, 
Had  wheel'd  his  steed  about : 

His  courser  rear'd,  and  phuiged,  and  ueigh'd, 

Loathing  the  fight  to  yield  ; 
But  the  coward  spurr'd  him  to  the  bone, 

And  drove  him  from  the  field. 

Gonzalez  in  his  stirrups  rose  : 

"Turn,  turn,  thou  traitor  knight! 
Thou  bold  tongue  in  a  lady's  bower, 

Thou  dastard  in  a  fight !  " 

But  vainly  valiant  Gomez  cried 

Across  the  waning  fray  : 
Pale  Lara  and  his  craven  band 

To  Burgos  scour'd  away. 

"  Now,  by  the  God  above  me,  sirs, 

Better  we  all  were  dead 
Than  a  single  knight  among  ye  all 

Should  ride  where  Lara  led ! 


534  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Yet  ye  who  fear  to  follow  me, 
As  3'on  traitor  turn  and  fly  ; 

For  I  lead  ye  not  to  win  a  field ; 
I  lead  ye  forth  to  die. 

Olea,  plant  my  standard  here,  — 

Here  on  this  little  mound  ; 
Here  raise  the  war-cry  of  thy  House, 

Make  this  our  rallying-ground. 

Forget  not,  as  thou  hopest  for  grace : 

The  last  care  I  shall  have 
Will  be  to  hear  thy  battle-cry, 

And  see  that  standard  wave." 

Down  on  the  ranks  of  Aragon 

The  bold  Gonzalez  drove, 
And  Olea  raised  his  battle-cry, 

And  waved  the  flag  above. 

Slowly  Gonzalez'  little  band 
Gave  ground  before  the  foe  ; 

But  not  an  inch  of  the  field  was  won 
Without  a  deadly  blow  ; 

And  not  an  inch  of  the  field  was  won 

That  did  not  draw  a  tear 
From  the  widow'd  wives  of  Aragon, 

That  fatal  news  to  hear. 

Backward  and  backward  Gomez  fought, 
And  high  o'er  the  clashing  steel 

Plainer  and  plainer  rose  the  cry, 
"Olea  for  Castile!  " 

Backward  fought  Gomez,  step  by  step. 
Till  the  cry  was  close  at  hand,  — 

Till  his  dauntless  standard  shadow'd  him ; 
And  there  he  made  his  stand. 


COUNT  CANDESPINA^S   STANDARD.  535 

Mace,  sword,  and  axe  rang  on  his  mail, 

Yet  he  moved  not  where  he  stood, 
Though  each  gaping  joint  of  armour  ran 

A  stream  of  purple  blood. 

As,  pierced  with  countless  wounds,  he  fell, 

The  standard  caught  his  eye, 
And  he  smiled,  like  an  infant  hush'd  asleep, 

To  hear  the  battle-cry. 

Now  one  by  one  the  wearied  knights 

Have  fallen,  or  basely  flown  ; 
And  on  the  mound  where  his  post  was  fix'd 

Olea  stood  alone. 

"  Yield  up  thy  banner,  gallant  knight ! 

Thy  lord  lies  on  the  plain  : 
Thy  duty  has  been  nobly  done ; 

I  would  not  see  thee  slain." 

"  Spare  pity.  King  of  Aragon  ! 

I  would  not  hear  thee  lie  : 
My  lord  is  looking  down  from  Heaven 

To  see  his  standard  Qy." 

"Yield,  madman,  yield  !  thy  horse  is  down, 

Thou  hast  nor  lance  nor  shield  ; 
Fly  !  —  I  will  grant  thee  time."     "  This  flag 

Can  neither  fly  nor  yield  !  " 

They  girt  the  standard  round  about, 

A  wall  of  flashing  steel ; 
But  still  they  heard  the  battle-cry, 

"  Olea  for  Castile  !  " 

And  there,  against  all  Aragon, 

Full-arm'd  with  lance  and  brand, 
Olea  fought  until  the  sword 

Snapp'd  in  his  sturdy  hand. 


636  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Among  the  foe  with  that  high  scorn 
Which  laughs  at  earthly  fears, 

He  hurl'd  the  broken  hilt,  and  drew 
His  dagger  on  the  spears. 

They  hew'd  the  hauberk  from  his  breast, 
The  helmet  from  his  head ; 

They  hew'd  the  hands  from  off  his  limbs  ; 
From  every  vein  he  bled. 

Clasping  the  standard  to  his  heart, 

He  raised  one  dying  peal, 
That  rang  as  if  a  trumpet  blew,  — 

"  Olea  for  Castile  !  " 

THE  PAMINR 

H.  W.  Longfellow. 

O,  THE  long  and  dreary  Winter ! 
O,  the  cold  and  cruel  Winter ! 
Ever  thicker,  thicker,  thicker 
Froze  the  ice  on  lake  and  river ; 
Ever  deeper,  deeper,  deeper 
Fell  the  snow  o'er  all  the  landscape. 
Fell  the  covering  snow,  and  drifted 
Through  the  forest,  round  the  village. 
Hardh"  from  his  buried  wigwam 
Could  the  hunter  force  a  passage  ; 
With  his  mittens  and  his  snow-shoes 
Vainly  walk'd  he  through  the  forest. 
Sought  for  bird  or  beast  and  found  none, 
Saw  no  track  of  deer  or  rabbit, 
In  the  snow  beheld  no  footprints, 
In  the  ghastly,  gleaming  forest 
Fell,  and  could  not  rise  from  weakness, 
Perish'd  there  from  cold  and  hunger. 


THE    FAMINE.  537 

O,  the  famine  and  the  fever! 
O,  the  wasting  of  the  famine  ! 
O,  the  blasting  of  the  fever ! 
O,  the  wailing  of  the  cliildren  ! 
O,  the  anguish  of  the  women  ! 
All  the  earth  was  sick  and  famish'd ; 
Hungry  was  the  air  around  them, 
Hungry  was  the  sky  above  them, 
And  the  hungry  stars  in  heaven 
Like  the  eyes  of  wolves  glared  at  them. 

Into  Hiawatha's  wigwam 
Came  two  other  guests,  as  silent 
As  the  ghosts  were,  and  as  gloomy ; 
"Waited  not  to  be  invited, 
Did  not  parley'  at  the  door-way, 
Sat  there  without  word  of  welcome 
In  the  seat  of  Laughing  Water  ; 
Look'd  with  haggard  eyes  and  hollow 
At  the  face  of  Laughing  Water. 
And  the  foremost  said,  "  Behold  me  ! 
I  am  Famine,  Bukadawin  !  " 
And  the  other  said,  "  Behold  me  ! 
I  am  Fever,  Ahkosewin  !  " 
And  the  lovely  Minnehaha 
Shudder'd  as  they  look'd  upon  her, 
Shudder'd  at  the  words  they  utter'd. 
Lay  down  on  her  bed  in  silence. 
Hid  her  face,  but  made  no  answer ; 
Lay  there  trembling,  freezing,  burning 
At  the  looks  they  cast  upon  her, 
At  the  fearful  words  they  utter'd. 

Forth  into  the  empt}'  forest 
Rush'd  the  madden'd  Hiawatha; 
In  his  heart  was  deadly  sorrow, 
In  his  fsice,  a  stony  firmness, 


538  CHOICE    READINGS. 

On  his  brow  the  sweat  of  anguish 
Started,  but  it  froze  and  fell  not. 
Wrapp'd  in  furs  and  arm'd  for  hunting 
Witli  his  mighty  bow  of  ash-tree, 
With  his  quiver  full  of  arrows, 
With  his  mittens,  Minjekahwun, 
Into  the  vast  and  vacant  forest 
On  his  snow-shoes  strode  he  forward. 

"  Gitche  Manito,  the  mighty  !  " 
Cried  he  with  his  face  uplifted 
In  that  bitter  hour  of  anguish, 
"  Give  your  children  food,  O  Father! 
Give  us  food,  or  we  must  perish  ! 
Give  me  food  for  Minnehaha, 
For  my  dying  Minnehaha  !  " 
Through  the  far-resounding  forest, 
Through  the  forest  vast  and  vacant 
Rang  that  cry  of  desolation  ; 
But  there  came  no  other  answer 
Thau  the  echo  of  his  crying. 
Than  the  echo  of  the  woodlands, 
"  Minnehaha  !  Minnehaha  !  " 

All  day  long  roved  Hiawatha 
In  that  melancholy  forest. 
Through  the  shadow  of  whose  thickets, 
In  the  pleasant  daj's  of  Summer, 
Of  that  ne'er  forgotten  Summer, 
He  had  brought  his  young  wife  homeward 
From  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs  ; 
When  the  birds  sang  in  the  thickets. 
And  the  streamlets  laugh'd  and  glisten'd, 
And  the  air  was  full  of  fragrance, 
And  the  lovnig  Laughing  Water 
Said  Avith  voice  that  did  not  tremble, 
"  T  will  follow  you,  my  husband  !  " 


THE    FAMINE. 

In  the  wigwam  with  Nokomis, 
With  those  gloomy  guests  that  watch'd  her, 
With  the  Famine  and  the  Fever, 
She  was  lying,  the  beloved. 
She,  the  dying  Minnehaha. 
"  Hark  !  "  she  said,  "  I  hear  a  rushing, 
Hear  a  roaring  and  a  rushing, 
Hear  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha 
Calling  to  me  from  a  distance !  " 
"  No,  my  child  !  "  said  old  Nokomis, 
"  'Tis  the  night-Avind  in  the  pine-trees." 
"  Look  !  "   she  said,  "  I  see  my  father 
Standing  lonely  at  his  door-way. 
Beckoning  to  me  from  his  wigwam 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs." 
••  No,  my  child  !  "  said  old  Nokomis, 
"  'Tis  the  smoke  that  waves  and  beckons." 
"  Ah !  "  she  said,  "  the  eyes  of  Pauguk 
Glare  upon  me  in  the  darkness, 
I  can  feel  his  icy  fingers 
Clasping  mine  amid  the  darkness  I 
Hiawatha  !  Hiawatha  !  " 

And  the  desolate  Hiawatha, 
Far  away  amid  the  forest, 
Miles  away  among  the  mountains, 
Heard  that  sudden  cry  of  anguish, 
Heard  the  voice  of  Minnehaha 
Calling  to  him  in  the  darkness, 
"  Hiawatha  !  Hiawatha  !  " 

Over  snow-fields  waste  and  pathless, 
Under  snow-eucumber'd  branches, 
Homeward  hurried  Hiawatha, 
Empty-handed,  heavy-hearted ; 
Heard  Nokomis  moaning,  wailing, 
*'  Wahonowin  !  Wahonowin  1 


539 


540  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Would  that  I  had  perish'd  for  you, 
Would  that  I  were  dead  as  you  are. 
"Wahouowin  !  Wahonowin  !  " 
And  he  rush'd  into  the  wigwam, 
Saw  the  old  Nokomis  slowly 
Rocking  to  and  fro  and  moaning, 
Saw  his  lovely  Minnehaha 
Lying  dead  and  cold  before  him  ; 
And  his  bursting  heart  within  him 
Utter'd  such  a  cry  of  anguish 
That  the  forest  nioan'd  and  shudder'd, 
That  the  very  stars  in  heaven 
Shook  and  trembled  with  his  anguish. 

Then  he  sat  down,  still  and  speechless, 
On  the  bed  of  Minnehaha, 
At  the  feet  of  Laughing  Water, 
At  those  willing  feet,  that  never 
More  would  lightly  run  to  meet  him, 
Never  more  would  lightly  follow. 
With  both  hands  his  face  he  cover'd ; 
Seven  long  days  and  nights  he  sat  there, 
As  if  in  a  swoon  he  sat  there, 
Speechless,  motionless,  unconscious 
Of  the  daylight  or  the  darkness. 

Then  they  buried  Minnehaha  ; 
In  the  snow  a  grave  they  made  her, 
In  the  forest  deep  and  darksome, 
Underneath  the  moaning  hemlocks  ; 
Clothed  her  in  her  richest  garments, 
Wrapp'd  her  in  her  robes  of  ermine, 
Cover'd  her  with  snow,  like  ermine : 
Thus  they  buried  Minnehaha ; 
And  at  night  a  fire  was  lighted. 
On  her  grave  four  times  was  l^indled. 
For  her  soul  upon  its  journey 


KATE    SHELLY.  541 

To  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed. 
From  his  door-way  Hiawatha 

Saw  it  burning  in  the  forest, 
Lighting  up  the  gloomy  hemlocks  ; 
From  his  sleepless  bed  uprising, 
From  the  bed  of  Minnehaha, 
Stood  and  watch'd  it  at  the  door-way, 
That  it  might  not  be  extinguish'd. 
Might  not  leave  her  in  the  darkness. 

"  Farewell !  "  said  he,  "  Minnehaha; 
Farewell,  O  my  Laughing  "Water ! 
All  my  heart  is  buried  with  you. 
All  my  thoughts  go  onward  with  you ! 
Come  not  back  again  to  labour, 
Come  not  back  again  to  suffer, 
Where  the  Famine  and  the  Fever 
Wear  the  heart  and  waste  the  body. 
Soon  my  task  will  be  completed. 
Soon  your  footsteps  I  shall  follow 
To  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed, 
To  the  Kingdom  of  Ponemah, 
To  the  Land  of  the  Hereafter  !  " 


KATE  SHELLY. 

Eugene  J.  Hall. 

Have  you  heard  how  a  girl  saved  the  lightning  express, 
Of  Kate  Shelly,  whose  father  was  kill'd  on  the  road? 

Were  he  living  to-day,  he'd  be  proud  to  possess 

Such  a  daughter  as  Kate.     Ah  !  'twas  grit  that  she  show'd 

On  that  terrible  evening  when  Donahue's  train 

Jump'd  the  bridge  and  went  down,  in  the  darkness  and  rain ! 

She  was  only  eighteen,  but  a  woman  in  size, 
With  a  figure  as  graceful  and  lithe  as  a  doe ; 

With  peach-blossom  cheeks,  and  with  violet  eyes, 
And  teeth  and  complexion  like  new-fallen  snow; 


542  CHOICE    READINGS. 

With  a  nature  unspoil'd  and  unblemish'd  by  art, 
With  a  generous  soul,  and  a  warm,  noble  heart ! 

'Tis  evening ;  the  darkness  is  dense  and  profound : 
Men  linger  at  home  by  their  bright-blazing  fires  ; 

The  wind  wildly  howls  with  a  horrible  sound, 

And  shrieks  through  the  vibrating  telegraph  wires; 

The  fierce  lightning  flashes  along  the  dark  sky ; 

The  rain  falls  in  torrents ;  the  river  rolls  by. 

The  scream  of  a  whistle  I  the  rush  of  a  train  ! 

The  sound  of  a  bell !  a  mysterious  light 
That  flashes  and  flares  through  the  fast-falling  rain ! 

A  rumble !  a  roar !  shrieks  of  human  affright ! 
The  falling  of  timbers  !  the  space  of  a  breath  ! 
A  splash  in  the  river !  then  darkness  and  death  ! 

Kate  Shelly  recoUs  at  the  terrible  crash ; 

The  sounds  of  destruction  she  happens  to  hear ; 
She  springs  to  the  window,  she  throws  up  the  sash, 

And  listens  and  looks,  with  a  feeling  of  fear  : 
The  tall  tree-tops  groan,  and  she  hears  the  faint  cry 
Of  a  drowning  man  down  in  the  river  near  by ! 

Her  heart  feebly  flutters,  her  features  grow  wan  ; 

And  then  through  her  soul  in  a  moment  there  flies 
A  forethought  that  gives  her  the  strength  of  a  man  : 

She  turns  to  her  trembling  old  mother  and  cries, 
"  I  must  save  the  express ;  'twill  be  here  in  an  hour !  " 
Then  out  through  the  door  disappears  in  the  shower. 

She  flies  down  the  track  through  the  pitiless  rain ; 

She  reaches  the  river ;  the  water  below 
Whirls  and  seethes  through  the  timbers.     She  shudders  again 

"  The  bridge !     To  Moingona  God  help  me  to  go  !  " 
Then  closely  about  her  she  gathers  her  gown. 
And  on  the  wet  ties  with  a  shiver  sinks  down. 

Then  carefully  over  the  timber  she  creeps 

On  her  hands  and  her  knees,  almost  holding  her  breath. 
The  loud  thunder  peals  and  the  wind  wildly  sweeps. 

And  struggles  to  hurry  her  downward  to  death ; 
But  the  thought  of  the  train  to  destruction  so  near 
Removes  from  her  soul  every  feeling  of  fear. 


THE   gambler's    WIFE.  543 

With  the  blood  dripping  down  from  each  torn,  bleeding  limb, 
Slowly  over  the  timbers  her  dark  way  she  feels  ; 

Her  fingers  grow  numb  and  her  head  seems  to  swim  ; 
Her  strength  is  fast  failing  ;  she  staggers,  she  reels. 

She  falls !     Ah !  the  danger  is  over  at  last. 

Her  feet  touch  the  earth,  and  the  long  bridge  is  pass'd  I 

In  an  instant  new  life  seems  to  come  to  her  form; 

She  springs  to  her  feet  and  forgets  her  despair : 
On,  on  to  Moingona !     She  faces  the  storm. 

She  reaches  the  station  —  the  keeper  is  there. 
"  Save  the  lightning  express  !     No,  —  hang  out  the  red  light ! 
There's  death  on  the  bridge  at  the  river  to-night !  " 

Out  flashes  the  signal-light,  rosy  and  red ; 

Then  sounds  the  loud  roar  of  the  swift-coming  train, 
The  hissing  of  steam ;  and  there,  brightly  ahead, 

The  gleam  of  a  headlight  illumines  the  rain. 
"  Down  brakes  !  "  shrieks  the  whistle,  defiant  and  shrill : 
She  heeds  the  red  signal,  she  slackens !  she's  still ! 

Ah  1  noble  Kate  Shelly,  your  mission  is  done  ; 

Your  deed  that  dark  night  will  not  fade  from  our  gaze ; 
An  endless  renown  you  have  worthily  won  : 

Let  the  Nation  be  just,  and  accord  you  its  praise ; 
Let  your  name,  let  your  fame,  and  your  courage  declare 
What  a  woman  can  do,  and  a  woman  can  dare. 

THE  GAMBLER'S  WIFE. 


Dark  is  the  night,  how  dark  !     No  light,  no  fire  I 
Cold,  on  the  hearth,  the  last  faint  sparks  expire  1 
Shivering,  she  watches  by  the  cradle-side 
For  him  who  pledged  her  love,  —  last  year  a  bride  ! 

"  Hark  !  'tis  his  footstep.     No  !  'tis  past,  'tis  gone  I " 
Tick,  tick !  —  "  How  wearily  the  time  crawls  on  ! 
Wliy  should  he  leave  me  thus  ?     He  once  was  kind ; 
And  I  believed  'twould  last !  —  How  mad,  how  blind  I 


544  CHOICE    READINGS. 

"  Rest  thee,  my  babe,  rest  on  !  —  'Tis  hunger's  cry: 

Sleep  !  for  there  is  no  food,  —  the  fount  is  dry : 

Famine  and  cold  their  wearying  work  have  done: 

My  heart  must  break  !    And  thou !  "  —  the  clock  strikes  one. 

"  Hush  !  'tis  the  dice-box  !     Yes,  he's  there,  he's  there ! 
For  this,  —  for  this  he  leaves  me  to  despair! 
Leaves  love,  leaves  truth,  his  wife,  his  child!  for  what? 
The  wanton's  smile,  —  the  villain,  —  and  the  sot ! 

Yet  I'll  not  curse  him  :  no  !  'tis  all  in  vain : 

'Tis  long  to  wait,  but  sure  he'll  come  again ; 

And  I  could  starve,  and  bless  him,  but  for  you, 

My  child !  —  his  child  !     O  fiend  !  "  —  The  clock  strikes  two. 

"  Hark,  how  the  sign-board  creaks  !     The  blast  howls  by. 
Moan  !  moan  !     A  dirge  swells  through  the  cloudy  sky. 
Ha,  'tis  his  knock  !  he  comes  !  —  he  comes  once  more  !  " 
'Tis  but  the  lattice  flaps  :  —  thy  hope  is  o'er. 

"  Can  he  desert  us  thus  ?     He  knows  T  stay, 
Night  after  night,  in  loneliness,  to  pray 
For  his  return,  —  and  yet  he  sees  no  tear. 
No,  no  !  it  cannot  be  :  he  will  be  here  ! 

Nestle  more  closely,  dear  one,  to  my  heart ! 

Thou'rt  cold  !  thou'rt  freezing  !     But  we  loill  not  part. 

Husband !  —  I  die !  —  Father !  —  It  is  not  he ! 

O  God,  protect  my  child  !  "  —  The  clock  strikes  three. 

They're  gone,  they're  gone  !  the  glimmering  spark  hath  fled : 

The  wife  and  child  are  number'd  with  the  dead : 

On  the  cold  hearth,  outstretcli'd  in  solemn  rest, 

The  baVje  lay  frozen  on  its  mother's  breast. 

The  gambler  came  at  last,  —  but  all  was  o'er ; 

Dread  silence  reiq-u'd  around  :  —  the  clock  struck  four  I 


JOHN    MAYNARD,    THK    HERO-riLOT.  545 

JOHN   MAYNAED,   THE   HEKO-PILOT. 

John  B.  Gough. 

John  Maynard  was  well  known  in  the  Lake  district  as  a 
God-feai'ing,  honest,  intelligent  man.  He  was  a  pilot  on  a 
steamer  from  Detroit  to  Buffalo,  one  summer  afternoon. 
At  that  time  those  steamers  seldom  carried  boats.  Smoke 
was  seen  ascending  from  below,  and  the  oaptaiu  called  out, 
"  Simpson,  go  down  and  see  what  that  smoke  is."  Simpson 
came  up  with  his  face  pale  as  ashes,  and  said,  "  Captain,  the 
ship  is  on  fire  !  "  Then,  "  Fire  !  fire  !  fire  !  fire  on  ship- 
board !  "  All  hands  were  called  up.  Buckets  of  water  were 
dashed  upon  the  fire,  but  in  vain.  There  were  large  quanti- 
ties of  rosin  and  tar  on  board,  and  it  was  useless  to  attempt 
to  save  the  ship.  Passengers  rushed  forward  and  inquired 
of  the  pilot,  "How  far  are  we  from  Buffalo?"  "Seven 
miles."  "  How  long  before  we  reach  it?"  "Three-quar- 
ters of  an  hour  at  our  present  rate  of  steam."  "  Is  there 
any  danger?"  "Danger  here, — see  the  smoke  bursting 
out !  Go  forward,  if  3'ou  would  save  your  lives  !  "  Passen- 
gers and  crew,  men,  women,  and  children,  crowded  the  for- 
ward part  of  the  ship.  John  Maynard  stood  at  the  helm. 
Tlie  flames  burst  forth  in  a  sheet  of  fire,  clouds  of  smoke 
arose;  the  captain  cried  out  through  his  trumpet,  "John 
Maynard!"  "Ay,  ay,  sir."  "  Are  you  at  the  helm?" 
"Ay,  ay,  sir."  "  How  does  she  head?"  "Southeast  by 
east,  sir."  "  Head  her  southeast  and  run  her  on  shore." 
Nearer,  nearer,  yet  neai-er  she  approached  the  shore.  Again 
the  captain  cried  out,  "  John  Maynard!"  The  response 
came  feebly,  "  Ay,  ay,  sir."  "  Can  you  hold  on  five  min- 
utes longer,  John?"  "By  God's  help  I  can."  The  old 
man's  hair  was  scorched  from  the  scalp  ;  one  hand  disabled, 
his  knee  upon  the  stanchion,  and  his  teeth  set,  with  his 
other  hand  upon  the  wheel,  he  stood  firm  as  a  rock.  He 
beached  the  ship,  —  ever}'  man,  woman,  and  child  was  saved, 
as  John  Maynard  dropped,  and  his  spirit  took  its  flight  to 
his  God. 


546  CHOICE    READINGS. 

LADY   OLAKE. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 

It  was  the  time  when  lilies  blow, 

And  clouds  are  highest  up  in  air, 
Lord  Ronald  brought  a  lil3-white  doe 

To  give  his  cousin,  Lady  Clare. 

I  trow  they  did  not  part  in  scorn  : 
Lovers  long-betroth'd  were  tliey  : 

They  two  will  wed  the  morrow  morn ; 
God's  blessing  on  the  day  ! 

"  He  does  not  love  me  for  m^'  birth. 
Nor  for  m}-  lands  so  broad  and  fair ; 

He  loves  me  for  ra}'  own  true  worth. 
And  that  is  well,"  said  Lady  Clare. 

In  there  came  old  Alice  the  nurse. 

Said,  "  Who  was  this  that  went  from  thee?" 

"  It  was  my  cousin,"  said  Lady  Clare, 
"  To-morrow  he  weds  with  me." 

"  O,  God  be  thank'd  !  "  said  Alice  the  nurse, 
' '  That  all  comes  round  so  just  and  fair  ; 

Lord  Ronald  is  heir  of  all  your  lands. 
And  you  are  not  the  Lady  Clare." 

"  Are  3'e  out  of  your  mind,  my  nurse,  my  nurse,*' 
Said  Lad}-  Clare,  '•  that  ye  speak  so  wild?" 

"  As  God's  above,"  said  Alice  the  nurse, 
"  I  speak  the  truth  :  you  are  my  child. 

The  old  Earl's  daughter  died  at  my  breast; 

I  speak  the  truth,  as  I  live  by  bread ! 
I  bui'ied  her  like  m}'  own  sweet  child, 

And  put  my  child  in  her  stead." 


LADY    CLARE.  54i 

"  Falsely,  falsely  have  ye  done, 

O  mother,"  she  said,  "  if  this  be  true  ;  — 

To  keep  the  best  man  under  the  Sun 
So  many  j-ears  from  his  due." 

"  Nay,  now,  my  child,"  said  Alice  the  nurse, 

"  But  keep  the  secret  for  your  life, 
And  all  you  have  will  be  Lord  Ronald's, 

When  you  are  man  and  wife." 

"  If  I'm  a  beggar  born,"  slie  said, 
"•  I  will  speak  out,  for  I  dare  not  lie. 

Pull  off,  ])ull  off  tlie  brooch  of  gold, 
And  fling  the  diamond  necklace  by." 

**  Na}',  now,  my  child,"  said  Alice  the  nurse, 

"  But  keep  the  secret  all  3-e  can." 
She  said,  "  Not  so  ;  but  I  will  know 

If  there  be  any  faith  in  man." 

"  Nay,  now,  what  faith?"  said  Alice  the  nurse ; 

"  The  man  will  cleave  unto  his  right." 
"  And  he  shall  have  it,"  the  lad}'  replied, 
"  Though  I  should  die  to-night." 

"Yet  give  one  kiss  to  your  mother  dear! 

Alas,  m}'  child,  I  sinn'd  for  thee." 
"  O  mother,  mother,  mother,"  she  said, 

"  So  strange  it  seems  to  me. 

Yet  here's  a  kiss  for  my  mother  dear, 

My  mother  dear,  if  this  be  so. 
And  lay  jour  hand  upon  my  head. 

And  bless  me,  mother,  ere  I  go." 

She  clad  herself  in  a  russet  gown. 

She  was  no  longer  Lady  Clare  : 
She  went  by  dale,  and  she  went  by  down, 

With  a  single  rose  in  her  hair. 


548  CHOICE    READINGS. 

The  lily-white  doe  Lord  Ronald  had  brought 
Leapt  up  from  where  she  lay, 

Dropt  her  head  in  the  maiden's  hand, 
And  follow'd  her  all  the  way. 

Down  stept  Lord  Ronald  from  his  tower : 
"  O  Lady  Clare,  you  shame  your  worth! 

"Why  come  you  drest  like  a  village  maid, 
That  are  the  flower  of  the  Earth?  " 

"  If  I  come  drest  like  a  village  maid, 
I  am  but  as  my  fortunes  are : 

I  am  a  beggar  born,"  she  said, 
"  And  not  the  Lady  Clare." 

"Play  me  no  tricks,"  said  Lord  Ronald, 
"  For  I  am  yours  in  word  and  in  deed ; 

Play  me  no  tricks,"  said  Lord  Ronald, 
"  Your  riddle  is  hard  to  read." 

O,  and  proudly  stood  she  up ! 

Her  heart  within  her  did  not  fail : 
She  look'd  into  Lord  Ronald's  eyes, 

And  told  him  all  her  nurse's  tale. 

He  laugh'd  a  laugh  of  merry  scorn  ; 

He  turn'd  and  kiss'd  her  where  she  stood : 
"  If  you  are  not  the  heiress  born, 

And  I,"  said  he,  "  the  next  in  blood,  — 

If  you  are  not  the  heiress  born, 
And  I,"  said  he,  "  the  lawful  heir, 

We  two  will  wed  to-morrow  morn. 
And  you  shall  still  be  Lady  Clare." 


maclaine's  child.  S49 

MACLAINE'S   CHILD. 

Charles  Mackay. 

"  Maclatne  !  you've  scourged  me  like  a  hound  ; 
You  should  have  struck  me  to  the  ground ; 
You  should  have  play'd  a  chieftain's  part ; 
You  should  have  stabb'd  me  to  the  heart. 

You  should  have  crush'd  me  unto  death : 
But  here  I  swear  with  living  breath 
That  for  this  wrong  which  you  have  done 
I'll  wreak  my  vengeance  on  your  son,  — 

On  him,  and  you,  and  all  your  race  !  " 
He  said,  and  bounding  from  his  place. 
He  seized  the  child  with  sudden  hold,  — 
A  smiling  infant,  three  years  old, — 

And,  starting  like  a  hunted  stag. 
He  scaled  the  rock,  he  clomb  the  crag, 
And  reach'd,  o'er  many  a  wide  abyss, 
The  beetling  seaward  precipice  ; 

And,  leaning  o'er  its  topmost  ledge, 
He  held  the  infant  o'er  the  edge  : 
"  In  vain  thy  wrath,  thy  sorrow  vain  ; 
No  hand  shall  save  it,  proud  Maclaine !  '' 

With  flashing  eye  and  burning  brow 
The  mother  follow'd,  heedless  how, 
O'er  crags  with  mosses  overgrown. 
And  stair-like  juts  of  slippery  stone. 

But  midway  up  the  rugged  steep 
She  found  a  chasm  she  could  not  leap, 
And,  kneeling  on  its  brink,  she  raised 
Her  supplicating  hands,  and  gazed. 


550  CHOICE    READINGS. 

"  O,  spare  my  child,  my  joy,  m^'  pride  ! 
O,  give  me  back  m}'  child  !  "  she  cried  : 
"  My  child  !  my  child  !  "  with  sobs  and  tears 
She  shriek'd  upon  his  callous  ears. 

"Come,  Evan,"  said  the  trembling  chief, — 
His  bosom  wrung  with  pride  and  grief,  — 
"  Restore  the  boy,  give  back  my  son, 
And  I'll  forgive  the  wrong  you've  done." 

"  I  scorn  forgiveness,  haught}'  man  ! 
You've  injured  me  before  the  clan  ; 
And  nought  but  blood  shall  wipe  away 
The  shame  I  have  endured  to-day." 

And,  as  he  spoke,  he  raised  the  child 
To  dash  it  'mid  the  breakers  wild. 
But,  at  the  mother's  piercing  cry. 
Drew  back  a  step,  and  made  reply  : 

"  Fair  lady,  if  your  lord  will  strip. 
And  let  a  clansman  wield  the  whip 
Till  skin  shall  flaj',  and  blood  shall  run, 
I'll  give  you  back  your  little  son." 

The  lady's  cheek  grew  pale  with  ire, 

The  chieftain's  e3-es  flash'd  sudden  fire; 

He  drew  a  pistol  from  his  breast, 

Took  aim,  —  then  dropp'd  it,  sore  distress'd. 

"  I  might  have  slain  m\'  babe  instead. 
Come,  Evan,  come,"  the  father  said. 
And  through  his  heart  a  tremor  ran  ; 
"We'll  fight  our  quarrel  man  to  man." 

"  Wrong  unavenged  I've  never  borne," 
Said  ICvan,  speaking  loud  in  scorn  ; 
"  You've  heard  my  answer,  proud  Maclaine  : 
I  will  not  fight  you,  —  think  again." 


maclaine's  child. 

The  lady  stood  in  mute  despair. 
With  freezing  blood  and  stiffening  hair ; 
She  moved  no  limb,  she  spoke  no  word; 
She  could  but  look  upon  her  lord. 

He  saw  the  quivering  of  her  eye, 

Pale  lips  and  speechless  agony  ; 

And,  doing  battle  with  his  pride, 

u  Give  back  the  boy,  -I  yield,"  he  cried, 

A  storm  of  passions  shook  his  mind,  — 
Anger  and  shame  and  love  combined; 
Bur  love  prevail'd,  and,  bending  low. 
He  bared  his  shoulders  to  the  blow. 

"I  smite  you,"  said  the  clansman  true  : 
"  Forgive  me,  chief,  the  deed  I  do ! 
For  by  yon  Heaven  that  hears  me  speak, 
My  dirk  in  Evan's  heart  shall  reek  !  " 

But  Evan's  face  beam'd  hate  and  joy  ; 
Close  to  his  breast  he  hugg'd  the  boy  : 
"  Revenge  is  just,  revenge  is  sweet, 
And  mine,  Lochbuy,  shall  be  complete." 

Ere  hand  could  stir,  with  sudden  shock 
He  threw  the  infant  o'er  the  rock. 
Then  foUow'd  with  a  desperate  leap, 
Down  fifty  fathoms  to  the  deep. 

They  found  their  bodies  in  the  tide  ; 
And  never  till  the  day  she  died 
Was  that  sad  mother  known  to  smile,  — 
The  Niobe  of  Mulla's  isle. 

They  dragg'd  false  Evan  from  the  sea, 
And  hang'd  him  on  a  gallows  tree : 
And  ravens  fatten'd  on  his  brain, 
To  sate  the  vengeance  of  JNIaclaine. 


561 


>52  CHOICE    READINGS. 

MOTHEE  AND   POET. 

Mrs.  Elizabeth  Browning. 
LAURA    SAVIO,    OF    TURIN,    AFTER    NEWS    FROM    GAETA,  1861. 

Dead  !     One  of  them  shot  by  the  sea  in  the  east, 
And  one  of  them  shot  in  the  west  by  the  sea. 

Dead !  both  my  boys  !     When  you  sit  at  the  feast, 
And  are  wanting  a  great  song  for  Italy  free, 
Let  none  look  at  me ! 

Yet  I  was  a  poetess  only  last  year, 

And  good  at  my  art,  for  a  woman,  men  said ; 

But  this  woman,  this,  who  is  agonized  here. 

The  east  sea  and  west  sea  rhyme  on  in  her  head 
For  ever,  instead. 

What  art  can  a  woman  be  good  at  ?    O,  vain  ! 

What  art  is  she  good  at,  but  hurting  her  breast 
With  the  milk-teeth  of  babes,  and  a  smile  at  the  pain  ? 

Ah,  boys,  how  you  hurt !  you  were  strong  as  you  press'd, 
And  I  proud,  by  that  test. 

What  art's  for  a  woman  ?     To  hold  on  her  knees 

Both  darlings,  to  feel  all  their  arms  round  her  throat 

Cling,  strangle  a  little  ;  to  sew  by  degrees 

And  broider  the  long  clothes  and  neat  little  coat ; 
To  dream  and  to  doat ! 

To  teach  them,  —  It  stings  there !     I  made  them,  indeed, 
Speak  plain  the  word  country.     I  taught  them,  no  doubt, 

That  a  country's  a  thing  men  should  die  for  at  need. 
I  prated  of  liberty,  rights,  and  about 
The  tyrant  cast  out. 

And,  when  their  eyes  flash'd,  —  O,  my  beautiful  eyes  I  — 

I  exulted ;  nay,  let  them  go  forth  at  the  wheels 
Of  the  guns  and  denied  not.     But  then  the  surprise 

When    one   sits  quite  alone !     Then    one  weeps,   then  c 
kneels ! 
God,  how  the  house  feels ! 


MOTHER   AND    POET.  55S 

At  first  happy  news  came,  —  in  gay  letters,  moil'd 
With  my  kisses,  — of  camp-life  and  glory,  and  how 

They  both  loved  me;  and,  soon  coming  home  to  be  spoil'd, 
In  return  would  fan  off  every  fly  from  my  brow 
With  their  green  laurel  bough. 

Then  was  triumph  at  Turin.     Ancona  was  free  ! 

And  some  one  came  out  of  the  cheers  in  the  street. 
With  a  face  pale  as  stone,  to  say  something  to  me : 

My  Guido  was  dead !     I  fell  down  at  his  feet. 
While  they  cheer'd  in  the  street. 

I  bore  it ;  friends  soothed  me  ;  my  grief  look'd  sublime 

As  the  ransom  of  Italy.     One  boy  remain'd 
To  be  lean'd  on  and  walk'd  with,  recalling  the  time 

When  the  first  grew  immortal,  while  both  of  us  strain'd 
To  the  height  he  had  gaiu'd. 

And  letters  still  came,  shorter,  sadder,  more  strong. 
Writ  now  but  in  one  hand :  I  was  not  to  faint,  — 

One  loved  me  for  two,  —  would  be  with  me  ere  long : 
And,  "  Viva  I' Italia  !  he  died  for,  —  our  saint,  — 
Who  forbids  our  complaint." 

My  Nanni  would  add :  he  was  safe,  and  aware 

Of  a  presence  that  turn'd  off  the  balls, —  was  impress'd 

It  was  Guido  himself,  who  knew  what  I  could  bear, 
And  how  'twas  impossible,  quite  dispossess'd, 
To  live  on  for  the  rest. 

On  which,  without  pause,  up  the  telegraph  line 
Swept  smoothly  the  next  news  from  Gaeta :  Shot. 

Tell  his  mother.     Ah,  ah,  "  his,"  •'  their  "  mother,  not  "  mine  "  i 
No  voice  says  "  My  mother  "  again  to  me.      What ! 
You  think  Guido  forgot  ? 

Are  souls  straight  so  happy  that,  dizzy  with  Heaven, 
They  drop  Earth's  aifections,  conceive  not  of  woe  ? 

I  think  not.     Themselves  were  too  lately  forgiven 
Through  that  Love  and  Sorrow  which  reconciled  so 
The  Above  and  Below. 


554  CHOICE    HEADINGS. 

O  Christ  of  the  seven  wounds,  who  look'dst  through  the  dark 
To  the  face  of  thy  ]\Iother !  consider,  I  pray, 

How  we  common  mothers  stand  desolate,  mark 

Whose  sons,  not  being  Christs,  die  with  eyes  tm-n'd  away, 
And  no  last  word  to  say. 

Both  boys  dead?  but  that's  out  of  nature.     We  all 

Have  been  patriots,  yet  each  house  must  always  keep  one. 

'Twere  imbecile,  hewing  out  roads  to  a  wall ; 
And,  when  Italy's  made,  for  what  end  is  it  done 
If  we  have  not  a  son? 

Ah,  ah,  ah  I  when  Gaeta's  taken  what  then? 

When  the  fair  wicked  queen  sits  no  more  at  her  sport 
Of  the  fire-balls  of  death,  crashing  souls  out  of  men? 

When  the  guns  of  Cavalli,  with  final  retort, 
Have  cut  the  game  short? 

When  Venice  and  Rome  keep  their  new  jubilee, 

When  your  flag  takes  all  heaven  for  its  white,  green,  and  red, 

When  you  have  a  country  from  mountain  to  sea. 
And  King  Victor  has  Italy's  crown  on  his  head, 
(Aiid  I  have  my  dead,)  — 

What  then  ?     Do  not  mock  me.     Ah,  ring  your  bells  low, 
And  burn  your  lights  faintly !     My  country  is  there, 

Above  the  star  prick'd  by  the  last  peak  of  snow; 
My  Italy's  there,  with  my  brave  civic  pair. 
To  disfranchise  despair  1 

Forgive  me.     Some  women  bear  children  in  strength, 
And  bite  back  the  cry  of  their  pain  in  self-scorn ; 

But  the  birth-pangs  of  nations  will  wring  us  at  length 
Into  wail  such  as  this ;  and  we  sit  on,  forlorn, 
When  the  man-child  is  born. 

Dead !     One  of  them  shot  by  the  sea  in  the  east, 
And  one  of  them  shot  in  the  west  by  the  sea. 

Both,  both  my  boys !     If,  in  keeping  the  feast, 
You  want  a  great  song  for  your  Italy  free. 
Let  none  look  at  me ! 


PARBHASIUS    AND    THE    CAPTIVE.  555 

PAKKHASIUS  AND  THE  CAPTIVE. 

N.  P.  Willis. 

Parrhasids  stood,  gazing  forgetfully 
Upon  his  canvas.     There  Prometheus  lay, 
Chain'd  to  the  cold  rocks  of  Mount  Caucasus, 
The  vulture  at  his  vitals,  and  the  links 
Of  the  lame  Lemnian  festering  in  his  flesh  ; 
And,  as  the  painter's  mind  felt  through  the  dim, 
Rapt  mystery,  and  pluck'd  the  shadows  forth 
"With  its  far-reaching  fancy,  and  with  form 
And  colour  clad  them,  his  fine,  earnest  eye 
Flash'd  with  a  passionate  fire,  and  the  quick  curl 
Of  his  thin  nostril,  and  his  quivering  lip, 
"Were  like  the  wing'd  god's,  breathing  from  his  flight. 

' '  Bring  me  the  captive  now  ! 
My  hand  feels  skilful,  and  the  shadows  lift 
From  my  waked  spirit  airily  and  swift, 

And  I  could  paint  the  bow 
Upon  the  bended  heavens,  —  around  me  play 
Colours  of  such  divinit}'  to-day. 

Ha  !  bind  him  on  his  back  ! 
Look  !  —  as  Prometheus  in  my  picture  here  ! 
Quick,  or  he  faints  !  — stand  with  the  cordial  near! 

Now,  —  bend  him  to  the  rack  ! 
Press  down  the  poisou'd  links  into  his  flesh  ! 
And  tear  agape  that  healing  wound  afresh  ! 

So,  —  let  him  writhe  !     How  long 
"Will  he  live  thus?     Quick,  my  good  pencil,  now  ! 
What  a  fine  agony  works  upon  his  brow ! 

Ha  !  gray-hair'd,  and  so  strong  ! 
How  fearfully  he  stifles  that  short  moan  ! 
Gods !  if  I  could  but  paint  a  dying  groan  ! 


556  CHOICE    READINGS. 

'  Pity '  thee  !     So  I  do  ! 
I  pity  the  dumb  victim  at  the  altar ; 
But  does  the  robed  priest  for  his  pity  falter? 

I'd  rack  thee,  though  I  knew 
A  thousand  lives  were  perishing  in  thine : 
What  were  ten  thousand  to  a  fame  like  mine? 

'  Hereafter  ! '     Ay,  —  hereafter  ! 
A  whip  to  keep  a  coward  to  his  track  ! 
What  gave  Death  ever  from  his  kingdom  back 

To  check  the  skeptic's  laughter? 
Come  from  the  grave  to-morrow  with  that  story 
And  I  may  take  some  softer  path  to  glory. 

No,  no,  old  man  !  we  die 
Even  as  the  flowers,  and  we  shall  breathe  away 
Our  life  upon  the  chance  wind,  even  as  the}' ! 

vStrain  well  thy  fainting  eve  ; 
For  when  that  bloodshot  quivering  is  o'er, 
The  light  of  heaven  will  never  reach  thee  more. 

Yet  there's  a  deathless  name  ! 
A  spirit  that  the  smothering  vault  shall  spurn, 
And  like  a  steadfast  planet  mount  and  burn  ; 

And,  though  its  crown  of  flame 
Consumed  ni}'  brain  to  ashes  as  it  shone. 
By  all  the  fiery  stars  !  I'd  bind  it  on. 

Ay,  —  though  it  bid  me  rifle 
My  heart's  last  fount  for  its  insatiate  thirst ; 
Though  every  life-strung  nerve  be  madden'd  first ; 

Though  it  should  bid  me  stifle 
The  yearning  in  my  throat  for  iny  sweet  child, 
And  taunt  its  mother  till  my  brain  went  wild ;  — 

All,  —  I  would  do  it  all,  — 
Sooner  than  die,  like  a  dull  worm,  to  rot,  — 
Thrust  foully  into  earth  to  be  forgot ! 

O  heavens  !  —  but  I  appal 


THE    POLISH    HOY.  00/ 

Your  heart,  old  man  !  forgive  —  ha  !  on  your  lives 
Let  him  not  faint !  —  rack  him  till  he  revives  ! 

Vain,  —  vain,  —  give  o'er  !     His  eye 
Glazes  apace.     He  does  not  feel  3'ou  now  ; 
Stand  back  !     I'll  paint  the  death-dew  on  his  brow  ! 

Gods  !  if  he  do  not  die 
But  for  one  moment,  —  one,  —  till  I  eclipse 
Conception  with  the  scorn  of  those  calm  lips  ! 

Shivering  !     Hark  !  he  mutters 
Brokenly  now,  —  that  was  a  difficult  breath  ;  — 
Another?     Wilt  thou  never  come,  O  death  ! 

Look  !  how  his  temple  flutters  ! 
Is  his  heart  still?     Aha  !  lift  up  his  head  ! 
He  shudders, —  gasps,  — Jove  help  him  !  —  so,  he's  dead." 

How  like  a  mounting  devil  in  the  heart 
Rules  the  unrein'd  ambition !     Let  it  once 
But  play  the  monarch,  and  its  haught}^  brow 
Glows  with  a  beaut}'  that  bewilders  thought 
And  unthrones  peace  forever.     Putting  on 
The  very  pomp  of  Lucifer,  it  turns 
The  heart  to  ashes,  and  with  not  a  spring 
Left  in  the  bosom  for  the  spirit's  lip. 
We  look  upon  our  splendour  and  forget 
The  thirst  of  which  we  perish  ! 


THE  POLISH  BOY. 

Abridged. 
Ann  S.  Stephens. 

Whence  come  those  shrieks  so  wild  and  shnll, 
That  cut,  like  blades  of  steel,  the  air, 

Causing  the  creeping  blood  to  chill 
With  the  sharp  cadence  of  despair? 


558  CHOICE   READINGS. 

Again  they  come,  as  if  a  heart 

Were  cleft  in  twain  by  one  quick  blow, 

And  every  string  had  voice  apart 
To  utter  its  peculiar  woe. 

Whence  came  they?     From  yon  temple,  where 
An  altar,  raised  for  private  pra^'er, 
Now  forms  the  warrior's  marble  bed 
Who  Warsaw's  gallant  armies  led. 

The  dim  funereal  tapers  throw 
A  holy  lustre  o'er  his  brow, 
And  burnish  with  their  rays  of  light 
The  mass  of  curls  that  gather  bright 
Above  the  haughty  brow  and  eye 
Of  a  young  boy  that's  kneeling  by. 

What  hand  is  that,  whose  icy  press 

Clings  to  the  dead  with  death's  own  grasp. 
But  meets  no  answering  caress  ? 

No  thrilling  fingers  seek  its  clasp. 
It  is  the  hand  of  her  whose  cry 

Rang  wildly,  late,  upon  the  air, 
When  the  dead  warrior  met  her  eye 

Outstretch'd  upon  the  altar  there. 

With  pallid  lip  and  stony  brow 
She  murmurs  forth  her  anguish  now. 
But,  hark  !  the  tramp  of  heavy  feet 
Is  heard  along  the  bloody  street ; 
Nearer  and  nearer  yet  they  come. 
With  clanking  arms  and  noiseless  drum. 
Now  whisper'd  curses,  low  and  deep, 
Around  the  holy  temple  creep  ; 
The  gate  is  burst ;  a  ruffian  band 
Rush  in,  and  savagely  demand. 
With  brutal  voice  and  oath  profane, 
The  startled  boy  for  exile's  chain. 


THE    POLISH    BOY.  559 

The  mother  sprang  with  gesture  wild, 

And  to  her  bosom  clasp'd  her  child  ; 

Then,  with  pale  cheek  and  flashing  eye, 

Shouted  with  fearful  energy' , 

"  Back,  ruffians,  back  !  nor  dare  to  tread 

Too  near  the  bod}-  of  m}'  dead  ; 

Nor  touch  the  living  boy  ;  I  stand 

Between  him  and  Aour  lawless  band. 

Take  me,  and  bind  these  arms,  —  these  hands,  — 

With  Russia's  heaviest  iron  bands. 

And  drag  rae  to  Siberia's  wild 

To  perish,  if  'twill  save  my  child  ! " 

"Peace,  woman,  peace  !  "  the  leader  cried, 

Tearing  tiie  pale  bo}'  from  her  side 

And  in  his  ruffian  grasp  he  bore 

His  victim  to  the  temple  door. 

"  One  moment !  "  shriek'd  the  mother  ;  "  one  ! 

Will  land  or  gold  redeem  my  son  ? 

Take  heritage,  take  name,  take  all. 

But  leave  him  free  from  Russian  thrall ! 

Take  these  !"  and  her  white  arms  and  hands 

She  stripp'd  of  rings  and  diamond  bands. 

And  tore  from  braids  of  long  black  hair 

The  gems  that  gleam'd  like  starlight  there  ; 

Her  cross  of  blazing  rubies,  last, 

Down  at  the  Russian's  feet  she  cast. 

He  stoop'd  to  seize  the  glittering  store : 

Up  springing  from  the  marble  floor, 

The  mother,  with  a  cry  of  joy, 

Snatch'd  to  her  leaping  heart  the  boy. 

But  no  !  the  Russian's  iron  grasp 

Again  undid  the  mother's  clasp. 

Forward  she  fell,  with  one  long  cry 

Of  more  than  mortal  agony. 

But  the  brave  child  is  roused  at  length, 
And,  breaking  from  the  Russian's  hold. 


560  CHOICE    READINGS. 

He  stands,  a  giant  in  the  strength 
Of  his  young  spirit,  fierce  and  bold ; 

Proudly  he  towers  ;  his  flashing  eye, 
So  blue,  and  yet  so  bright. 

Seems  kindled  from  th'  eternal  sky. 
So  brilliant  is  its  light. 

His  curling  lips  and  crimson  cheeks 

Foretell  the  thought  before  he  speaks ; 

With  a  full  voice  of  proud  command 

He  tiirn'd  upon  the  wondering  band  : 

"  Ye  hold  me  not !  no,  no,  nor  can  ; 
This  hour  has  made  the  boy  a  man  : 
The  world  shall  witness  that  one  soul 
Fears  not  to  prove  itself  a  Pole. 

I  knelt  beside  my  slaughter'd  sire, 

Nor  felt  one  throb  of  vengeful  ire  ; 

I  wept  upon  his  marble  brow,  — 

Yes,  wept,  — ^I  was  a  child  ;  but  now 

My  noble  mother  on  her  knee 

Has  done  the  work  of  years  for  me. 

Although  in  this  small  tenciraent 

My  soul  is  cramp'd,  —  unbow'd,  unbent, 

I've  still  within  me  ample  power 

To  free  myself  this  very  hour : 

This  dagger  in  my  heart !  and  then 

Where  is  your  boasted  power,  base  men  ?  " 

He  drew  aside  his  broider'd  vest. 

And  there,  like  slumbering  serpent's  crest. 

The  jewell'd  haft  of  a  jioniard  bright 

Glitter'd  a  moment  on  the  sight. 

' '  Ha  !  start  ye  back  ?     Fool !  coward  !  knave  ! 

Think  ye  my  noble  father's  glave 

Could  drink  the  life-blood  of  a  slave  ? 

The  pearls  that  on  the  handle  flame 


VIRGINIA  :     A    LAY    OF    ANCIENT    ROME.  561 

Would  blush  to  rubies  in  their  shame : 
The  blade  would  quiver  iu  thy  breast, 
Ashamed  of  such  ignoble  rest ! 
No ;  thus  I  rend  thy  tyrant's  chain, 
And  fling  him  back  a  boy's  disdain  !  " 

A  moment,  and  the  funeral  light 
Flash'd  on  the  jewell'd  weapon  bright ; 
Another,  and  his  young  heart's  blood 
Leap'd  to  the  floor  a  crimson  flood. 
Quick  to  his  mother's  side  he  sprang, 
And  on  the  air  his  clear  voice  rang,  — 
"  Up,  mother,  up  !  I'm  free  !  I'm  free  ! 
The  choice  was  death  or  slavery  ; 
Up  !  mother,  up  !  look  on  my  face, 
I  onl^'  wait  for  thy  embrace. 
One  last,  last  word,  —  a  blessing,  one, 
To  prove  thou  know'st  what  I  have  done ! 
No  look  ?  no  word  ?     Canst  thou  not  feel 
My  warm  blood  o'er  thy  heart  congeal? 
Speak,  mother,  speak, — lift  up  thy  head. 
What !  silent  still  ?     Then  art  thou  dead  ! 
Great  God,  I  thank  thee  !     Mother,  I 
Rejoice,  with  thee  and  thus,  to  die." 
Slowly  he  falls  :  the  clustering  hair 
Rolls  back,  and  leaves  that  forehead  bare  : 
One  long,  deep  breath,  and  his  pale  head 
Lay  on  his  mother's  bosom,  dead. 


YIKGINIA:   A   LAY   OF   ANCIENT  EOME. 

Lord  Macaulay. 

Over  the  Alban  mountains  the  liglit  of  nioruing  broke; 

From  all  the  roofs  of  the  Seven  Hills  curl'd  the  thin  wreaths  of 

smoke ; 
The  city  gates  were  open;  the  Forum,  all  alive 


562  CHOICE    READINGS. 

With  buyers  and  with  sellers,  was  humming  like  a  hive ; 
And  blithely  young  Virginia  came  smiling  from  her  home, — 
Ah  1  woe  for  young  Virginia,  the  sweetest  maid  in  Rome. 
With  her  small  tablets  in  her  hand,  and  her  satchel  on  her  arm, 
Forth  she  went,  boimdiag,  to  the  school,  nor  dream'd  of  shame  or 

harm 
She  cross'd  the  Forum,  shining  with  the  stalls  in  alleys  gay, 
And  had  just  reach'd  the  very  spot  whereon  I  stand  this  day, 
When  up  the  varlet  IMarcus  came  ;  not  such  as  when,  erewhile, 
He  crouch 'd  behind  his  patron's  heels,  with  the  true  client  smile : 
He  came  with  louring  forehead,  swollen  features,  and  clench'd  fist, 
And  strode  across  Virginia's  path,  and  caught  her  by  the  wrist : 
Hard  strove  the  f righten'd  maiden,  and  scream'd  with  look  aghast  : 
And  at  her  scream  from  right  to  left  the  folk  came  running  fast ; 
And  the  strong  smith  ISIursena  gave  IMarcus  such  a  blow. 
The  caitiff  reel'd  three  paces  back,  and  let  the  maiden  go ; 
Yet  glared  he  fiercely  round  him,  and  growl'd,  in  harsh  fell  tone, 
"  She's  mine,  and  I  will  have  her :  I  seek  but  for  mine  own. 
She  is  my  slave,  born  in  my  house,  and  stolen  away  and  sold. 
The  year  of  the  sore  sickness,  ere  she  was  twelve  years  old. 
I  wait  on  Appius  Claudius ;  I  waited  on  his  sire ; 
Let  him  who  works  the  client  wrong,  beware  the  patron's  ire  I " 
But,  ere  the  vai'let  Marcus  again  might  seize  the  maid, 
Who  clung  tight  to  Mursena's  skirt,  and  sobb'd,  and  shriek'd  for 

aid, 
Forth  through  the  throng  of  gazers  the  young  Icilius  press'd, 
And  stamp'd   his   foot,  and  rent  his   gown,  and   smote  upon  his 

breast. 
And  beckon'd  to  the  people,  and,  in  bold  voice  and  clear, 
Pour'd  thick  and  fast  the  burning  words  which  tyrants  quake  to 

hear. 

"  Now,  by  your  children's  cradles,  now,  by  your  father's  graves. 
Be  men  to-day,  Quirites,  or  be  for  ever  slaves  ! 
Shall  the  vile  fox-earth  awe  the  race  that  storm'd  the  lion's  den? 
Shall  we,  who  could  not  brook  one  lord,  crouch  to  the  wicked  Tenl 
O,  for  that  ancient  spirit  which  curb'd  the  Senate's  will  I 
O,  for  the  tents  which  in  old  time  whiten'd  the  Sacred  Hill  I 
In  those  brave  days,  our  fathers  stood  firmly  side  by  side ; 
They  faced  the  ^larcian  fury,  they  tamed  the  Fabian  pride : 
But,  look,  the  maiden's  father  comes,  —  behold  Virginius  here!" 


VIRGINIA  :     A    LAY    OF    ANCIENT    ROME.  563 

Straightway  Yirginius  led  the  maid  a  little  space  aside, 

To  where  the  reeking  shambles  stood,  piled  up  with  horn  and  hide; 

Hard  by,  a  flesher  on  a  block  had  laid  his  whittle  down ; 

Virginias  caught  the  whittle  up,  and  hid  it  in  his  gown ; 

And  then  his  eyes  grew  very  dim,  and  his  throat  began  to  swell, 

And  in  a  hoarse,  changed  voice  he  spake,  "  Farewell,  sweet  child, 

farewell ! 
O,  how  I  loved  my  darling  I     Though  stern  I  sometimes  be, 
To  thee,  thou  know'st,  I  was  not  so.     Who  could  be  so  to  thee  ? 
And  how  my  darling  loved  me  1     How  glad  she  was  to  hear 
My  footsteps  on  the  threshold,  when  I  came  back  last  year ! 
And  how  she  danced  with  pleasure  to  see  my  civic  crown, 
And  took  my  sword,  and  hung  it  up,  and  brought  me  forth  my 

gown  I 
Now,  all  those  things  are  over,  —  yes,  all  thy  pretty  ways,  — 
Thy  needle-work,  thy  prattle,  thy  snatches  of  old  lays  ; 
And  none  will  grieve  when  I  go  forth,  or  smile  when  I  return. 
Or  watch  beside  the  old  man's  bed,  or  weep  upon  his  urn.  — 
The  time  has  come !     See,  how  he  points  his  eager  hand  this  way  ! 
See,  how  his  eyes  gloat  on  thy  grief,  like  a  kite's  upon  the  prey. 
^Vith  all  his  wit  he  little  deems  that,  spurn'd,  betray'd,  bereft. 
Thy  father  hath  in  his  despair  one  fearful  refuge  left. 
He  little  deems  that  in  this  hand  I  clutch  what  still  can  save 
Thy  gentle  youth  from  taunts  and  blows,  the  portion  of  the  slave ; 
Yea,  and  from  nameless  evil,  that  passeth  taunt  and  blow,  — 
Foul  outrage  which  thou  knowest  not,  —  which  thou  shalt  never 

know! 
Then  clasp  me  round  the  neck  once  more ;  and  give  me  one  more 

kiss; 
And  now,  mine  own  dear  little  girl,  there  is  no  way  —  but  —  this  I  " 
With  that  he  lifted  high  the  steel,  and  smote  her  in  the  side. 
And  in  her  blood  she  sank  to  earth,  and  with  one  sob  she  died  1 

When  Appius  Claudius  saw  that  deed,  he  shudder'd  and  sank 

down. 
And  hid  his  face,  som.e  little  space,  with  the  corner  of  his  gown. 
Till,  with  white  lips  and  blood-shot  eyes,  Virginius  totter'd  nigh, 
And  stood  before  the  judgment-seat,  and  held  the  knife  on  high: 
"O!  dwellers  in  the  nether  gloom,  avengers  of  the  slain, 
By  this  dear  blood  I  cry  to  you,  do  right  between  us  twain ; 
And,  even  as  Appius  Claudius  hath  dealt  by  me  and  mine. 
Deal  thou  by  Appius  Claudius,  and  all  the  Claudian  line ! " 


564  CHOICE  readings. 

He  writhed  and  gioan'd  a  fearful  groan,  and  then  with  steadfast 

feet, 
Strode  right  across  the  market-place  into  the  Sacred  Street. 

Then  up  sprang  Appius  Claudius  :  "  Stop  him,  alive  or  dead  1 
Ten  thousand  pounds  of  copper  to  the  man  who  brings  his  head  !  " 
He  look'd  upon  his  clients,  —  but  none  would  work  his  will ; 
He  looked  upon  his  lictors,  —  but  they  trembled  and  stood  still ; 
And,  as  Virginius  through  the  press  his  way  in  silence  cleft, 
Ever  the  mighty  multitude  fell  back  to  right  and  left : 
And  he  has  pass'd  in  safety  unto  his  woeful  home, 
And  there  ta'en  horse  to  tell  the  Camp  what  deeds  are  done  in 
Rome. 


WOUNDED. 

William  E.  Miller. 

Let  me  lie  down 
Just  here  in  the  shade  of  this  cannon-torn  tree, 
Here,  low  on  the  trampled  grass,  where  I  may  see 
The  surge  of  the  combat,  and  where  I  may  hear 
The  glad  cry  of  victory,  cheer  upon  cheer : 

Let  me  lie  down. 

O,  it  was  grand  ! 
Like  the  tempest  we  charged,  in  the  triumph  to  share  ; 
The  tempest,  —  its  fury  and  thunder  were  there  : 
On,  on,  o'er  intrenchments.  o'er  living  and  dead, 
With  the  foe  under  foot,  and  our  flag  overhead : 

O,  it  was  grand  ! 

Weary  and  faint, 
Prone  on  the  soldier's  couch,  ah,  how  can  I  rest, 
With  this  shot-sluittcr'd  head  and  sabre-pierced  breast? 
Comrades,  at  roll-call  when  I  shall  be  sought. 
Say  I  fought  till  I  fell,  and  fell  where  I  fought, 

Wounded  and  faint. 


WOUNDED.  565 

O,  that  last  charge  ! 
Right  through  the  dread  liell-fire  of  shrapnel  and  shell, 
Through  without  faltering,  —  clear  through  with  a  yell ! 
Right  in  their  midst,  in  the  turmoil  and  gloom, 
Like  heroes  we  dash'd,  at  the  mandate  of  doom ! 

O,  that  last  charge  ! 

It  was  duty  ! 
Some  things  are  worthless,  and  some  others  so  good 
That  nations  who  bu}^  them  pa}'  only  in  blood. 
For  Freedom  and  Country  each  man  owes  his  part ; 
And  here  I  pay  my  share,  all  warm  from  my  heart: 

It  is  duty. 

Dying  at  last ! 
My  mother,  dear  mother  !  with  meek  tearful  eye, 
Farewell !  and  God  bless  you,  for  ever  and  aye  ! 
O  that  I  now  lay  on  your  pillowing  breast, 
To  breathe  my  last  sigh  on  the  bosom  first  prest ! 

Dying  at  last ! 

Great  Heaven  !  this  bullet-hole  gapes  like  a  grave ; 
A  curse  on  the  aim  of  the  traitorous  knave  ! 
Is  there  never  a  one  of  you  knows  how  to  pray, 
Or  speak  for  a  man  as  his  life  ebbs  away? 

Pray  !     Pray  ! 
Our  Father  !  our  Father  !  why  don't  you  proceed  ? 
Can't  you  see  I  am  dying?     Great  God,  how  I  bleed  ! 

Ebbing  away  ! 
Ebbing  away  !     The  light  of  the  day  is  turning  to  gray. 

Our  Father  in  Heaven,  — bo^'s  tell  me  the  rest. 

While  I  stanch  the  hot  blood  from  this  hole  in  my  breast. 

There's  something  about  the  forgiveness  of  sin  ; 

Put  that  in  !  put  that  in  !  —  and  then 

I'll  follow  your  words  and  say  an  amen. 

Here,  Morris,  old  fellow,  get  hold  of  my  hand, 
And,  Wilson,  my  connude,  — O  !   wasn't  it  grand 


666  CHOICE    READINGS, 

When  they  came  down  the  hill  like  a  thunder-charged  cloud, 
And  were  scatter'd  like  mist  by  our  brave  little  crowd  ? 

I  am  dying ;  bend  down,  till  I  touch  you  once  more; 

Don't  forget  me,  old  fellow  :  God  prosper  this  war ! 

Confusion  to  enemies  !  —  keep  hold  of  m}'  hand,  — 

And  float  our  dear  flag  o'er  a  prosperous  land  ! 

Where's  Wilson,  —  my  comrade,  —  here,  stoop  down  your 

head  ; 
Can't  you  say  a  short  prayer  for  the  dying  and  dead  ? 

Our  Father  which  art  In  Heaven,  hallowed  be  thy  name. 
Thy  kingdom  come.  Thy  will  be  done  in  Earth,  as  it  is  in 
Heaven.  Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread.  And  forgive  us 
our  debts,  as  we  forgive  our  debtors.  And  lead  us  not  into 
temptation,  but  deliver  us  from  evil:  For  thine  is  the  king- 
dom, and  the  power,  and  the  glory,  for  ever.     Amen. 

THE  WRECK   OP   THE   HESPERUS. 

H.  W.  Longfellow. 

It  was  the  schooner  Hesperus 

That  sail'd  the  wintrj'  sea  ; 
And  the  skipper  had  taken  his  little  daughter. 

To  bear  him  company. 

Blue  were  her  eyes  as  the  fairy-flax, 

Her  cheeks  like  the  dawn  of  da}^, 
And  her  bosom  white  as  the  hawthorn  buds 

That  ope  in  the  mouth  of  May. 

The  skipper  he  stood  beside  the  helm, 

His  i)ipe  was  in  his  mouth, 
And  he  watch'd  how  the  veering  flaw  did  blow 

The  smoke  now  west,  now  south. 


THE    WRECK    OF    THE    IlESPEKUS.  567 

Then  up  and  spake  an  old  sailor,  — 

Had  sail'd  the  Spanish  main,  — 
"  I  pra}-  thee,  put  into  yonder  port, 

For  I  fear  a  hurricane. 

Last  night  the  Moon  had  a  golden  ring, 

And  to-night  no  Moon  we  see  !  " 
The  skipper,  he  blew  a  whiff  from  his  pipe, 

And  a  scornful  laugh  laugh'd  he. 

Colder  and  louder  blew  the  wind, 

A  gale  from  the  north-east ; 
The  snow  fell  hissing  in  the  brine, 

And  the  billows  froth'd  like  yeast. 

Down  came  the  storm,  and  smote  amain 

The  vessel  in  its  strength  ; 
She  shudder'd  and  paused,  like  a  frighteu'd  steed. 

Then  leap'd  her  cable's  length. 

' '  Come  hither  !  come  hither  !  my  little  daughter, 

And  do  not  tremble  so  ; 
For  I  can  weather  the  roughest  gale, 

That  ever  wind  did  blow." 

He  wrapp'd  her  warm  in  his  seaman's  coat 

Against  the  stinging  blast ; 
He  cut  a  rope  from  a  broken  spar. 

And  bound  her  to  the  mast. 

"  O  father  !  I  hear  the  church-bells  ring, 

O  sa}',  what  may  it  be  ?  " 
' '  'Tis  a  fog-bell  on  a  rock-bound  coast !  " 

And  he  steer'd  for  the  open  sea. 

"  O  father  !  I  hear  the  sound  of  guns, 

O  say  what  may  it  be?" 
"  Some  ship  in  distress,  that  cannot  live 

In  such  an  angry  sea  !  " 


568  CHOICE    READINGS. 

**  O  father  !  I  see  a  gleaming  light, 

O  say,  what  may  it  be  ?  " 
But  the  father  answer'd  never  a  word, 

A  frozen  corpse  was  he. 

Lash'd  to  the  helm,  all  stiff  and  stark, 
With  his  face  turn'd  to  the  skies, 

The  lantern  gleam'd  through  the  gleaming  snow 
On  his  fix'd  and  glassy  eyes. 

Then  the  maiden  clasp'd  her  hands  and  pray'd. 

That  sav^d  she  might  be  ; 
And  she  thought  of  Christ,  who  still'd  the  wave 

On  the  Lake  of  Galilee. 

And  fast  through  the  midnight  dark  and  drear, 
Through  the  whistling  sleet  and  snow, 

Like  a  sheeted  ghost,  the  vessel  swept 
Towards  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe. 

And  ever,  the  fitful  gusts  between, 

A  sound  came  from  the  land  ; 
It  was  the  sound  of  the  trampling  surf 

On  the  rocks  and  the  hard  sea-sand. 

The  breakers  were  right  beneath  her  bows, 

She  drifted  a  dreary  wreck, 
And  a  whooping  billow  swept  the  crew 

Like  icicles  from  her  deck. 

She  struck  where  the  white  and  fleecy  waves 

Look'd  soft  as  carded  wool, 
But  the  cruel  rocks,  the}'  gored  her  side 

Like  the  horns  of  an  angiy  bull. 

Her  rattling  shrouds,  all  sheath'd  in  ice, 
With  the  masts  went  by  the  board  ; 

Like  a  vessel  of  glass,  she  stove  and  sank. 
Ho  !  ho !  the  breakers  roar'd  ! 


GONE    WITH    A    HANDSOMER   MAN.  569 

At  daybreak,  on  the  bleak  sea-beach, 

A  fisherman  stood  aghast, 
To  see  the  form  of  a  maiden  fair 

Lash'd  close  to  a  drifting  mast. 

The  salt  sea  was  frozen  on  her  breast, 

The  salt  tears  in  her  eyes  ; 
And  he  saw  her  hair,  like  the  brown  sea-weed, 

On  the  billows  fall  and  rise. 

Such  was  the  wreck  of  the  Hesperus, 

In  the  midnight  and  the  snow  ! 
Christ  save  us  all  from  a  death  like  this, 

On  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe  ! 


GONE  WITH  A  HANDSOMEE  MAN. 

Will  Carleton. 

John. 
Tve  work'd  in  the  field  all  day,  a-plowin'  the  "  stony  streak  "  ; 
I've  scolded  my  team  till  I'm  hoarse ;  I've  tramp'd  till  my  legs  are 

weak; 
I've  choked  a  dozen  swears,  (so's  not  to  tell  Jane  fibs,) 
When  the  plow-pint  struck  a  stone,  and  the  handles  punched  mj 

ribs. 

I've  put  my  team  in  the  barn,  and  rubb'd  their  sweaty  coats ; 
I've  fed  'em  a  heap  of  hay  and  half  a  bushel  of  oats ; 
And  to  see  the  way  they  eat  makes  me  like  eatin'  feel, 
And  Jane  won't  say  to-night  that  I  don't  make  out  a  meal. 

Well  said !  the  door  is  lock'd !  but  here  she's  left  the  key 
Under  the  step,  in  a  place  known  only  to  her  and  me : 
I  wonder  who's  dyin'  or  dead,  that  she's  hustled  off  pell-mell ; 
But  here  on  the  table's  a  note,  and  probably  this  will  tell. 

Good  God !  my  wife  is  gone !  my  wife  is  gone  astray ! 

The  letter  it  says,  "  Good-bye,  for  I'm  a-going  away ; 

I've  lived  with  you  six  months,  John,  and  so  far  I've  been  true; 

But  I'm  going  away  to-day  with  a  handsomer  man  than  you." 


570  CHOICE    READINGS. 

A  han'somer  man  than  me  !     Why,  that  ain't  much  to  say ; 
There's  han'somer  men  than  me  go  past  here  every  day : 
There's  han'somer  men  than  me,  —  I  ain't  of  the  han'some  kind; 
But  a  loven'er  man  than  I  was,  I  guess  she'll  never  find. 

Curse  her !  curse  her !  I  say,  and  give  my  curses  wings ! 
May  the  words  of  love  I've  spoken  be  changed  to  scorpion  stings  I 
O,  she  fill'd  my  heart  with  joy,  she  emptied  my  heart  of  doubt, 
And  now,  with  a  scratch  of  a  pen,  she  lets  my  heart's  blood  out  I 

Curse  her !  curse  her  1  say  I,  she'll  some  time  rue  this  day ; 
She'll  some  time  learn  that  hate  is  a  game  that  two  can  play ; 
And  long  before  she  dies  she'll  grieve  she  ever  was  born. 
And  I'll  plow  her  grave  with  hate,  and  seed  it  down  to  scorn. 

As  sure  as  the  world  goes  on,  there'll  come  a  time  when  she 
Will  read  the  devilish  heart  of  that  han'somer  man  than  me; 
And  there'll  be  a  time  when  he  will  find,  as  others  do. 
That  she  who  is  false  to  one  can  be  the  same  with  two. 

And  when  her  face  grows  pale,  and  when  her  eyes  grow  dim, 
And  when  he  is  tired  of  her  and  she  is  tired  of  him. 
She'll  do  what  she  ought  to  have  done,  and  coolly  count  the  cost ; 
And  then  she'll  see  things  clear,  and  know  what  she  has  lost. 

And  thoughts  that  are  now  asleep  will  wake  up  in  her  mind, 
And  she  will  mourn  and  cry  for  what  she  has  left  behind ; 
And  maybe  she'll  sometimes  long  for  me,  —  for  me ;  but  no ! 
I've  blotted  her  out  of  my  heart,  and  I  will  not  have  it  so. 

And  yet  in  her  girlish  heart  there  was  somethin'  or  other  she  had 

That  f  asten'd  a  man  to  her,  and  wasn't  entirely  bad ; 

And  she  loved  me  a  little,  I  think,  although  it  didn't  last ; 

But  I  mustn't  think  of  these  things,  —  I've  buried  'em  in  the  past. 

I'll  take  my  hard  words  back,  nor  make  a  bad  matter  worse: 
She'll  have  trouble  enough ;  she  shall  not  have  my  curse ; 
But  I'll  live  a  life  so  square,  —  and  I  well  know  that  I  can,  — 
That  she  always  will  sorry  be  that  she  went  with  that  han'somei 
man. 

Ah,  here  is  her  kitchen  dress !  it  makes  my  poor  eyes  blurr; 
It  seems,  when  I  look  at  that,  as  if  'twas  holdin'  her. 


GONE    WITH    A    HANDSOMER   MAN.  571 

And  here  are  her  week-day  shoes,  and  there  is  her  week-day  hat, 
And  yonder's  her  weddin'  gown  :  I  wonder  she  didn't  take  that. 

'Twas  only  this  mornin'  she  came  and  caU'd  me  her  "  dearest  dear," 
And  said  I  was  makin'  for  her  a  regular  paradise  here : 

0  God!  if  you  want  a  man  to  sense  the  pains  of  Hell, 
Before  you  pitch  him  in  just  keep  him  in  Heaven  a  spell ! 

Good-bye !  I  wish  that  death  had  sever'd  us  two  apart : 
You've  lost  a  worshipper  here,  you've  crush'd  a  lovin'  heart. 
I'll  worship  no  woman  again  ;  but  I  guess  I'll  learn  to  pray. 
And  kneel  as  you  used  to  kneel,  before  you  run  away. 

And  if  I  thought  I  could  bring  my  words  on  Heaven  to  bear, 
And  if  I  thought  I  had  some  little  influence  there, 

1  would  pray  that  I  might  be,  if  it  only  could  be  so, 
As  happy  and  gay  as  I  was  a  half  an  hour  ago. 

Jane  (entering'). 

Why,  John,  what  a  litter  here !  you've  thrown  things  all  around ! 
Come,  what's  the  matter  now  ?  and  what  have  you  lost  or  found  ? 
And  here's  my  father  here,  a  waiting  for  supper,  too ; 
I've  been  a-riding  with  him,  —  he's  that  "handsomer  man  than 
you." 

Ha  !  ha !  Pa,  take  a  seat,  while  I  put  the  kettle  on. 

And  get  things  ready  for  tea,  and  kiss  my  dear  old  John. 

Why,  John,  you   look  so  strange !   come,  what  has  cross'd  your 

track  ? 
I  was  only  a-joking,  you  know,  I'm  willing  to  take  it  back. 

John  (aside). 

Well,  now,  if  this  ain^i  a  joke,  with  rather  a  bitter  cream  I 
It  seems  as  if  I'd  woke  from  a  mighty  ticklish  dream ; 
And  I  think  she  "smells  a  rat,"  for  she  smiles  at  me  so  queer; 
I  hope  she  don't ;  good  gracious !  I  hope  that  they  didn't  hear  I 

'Twas  one  of  her  practical  drives,  she  thought  I'd  understand ! 
But  I'll  never  break  sod  again  till  I  get  the  lay  of  the  land. 
But  one  thing's  settled  with  me,  —  to  appreciate  Heaven  well, 
'Tis  good  for  a  man  to  have  some  fifteen  minutes  of  Hell. 


572  CHOICE    READINGS. 

THE   VAGABONDS. 

J.  T.  Trowbridge. 

We  are  two  travellers,  Roger  and  I. 

Roger's  1113'  dog  :  —  come  here,  you  scamp  ! 
Jump  for  the  gentlemen,  —  mind  your  eye  ! 

Over  the  table,  —  look  out  for  the  lamp  !  — 
The  rogue  is  growing  a  little  old  ; 

Five  years  we've  tramp'd  through  wind  and  weather. 
And  slept  out-doors  when  nights  were  cold. 

And  ate  and  drank  —  and  starved  together. 

We've  learn'd  what  comfort  is,  I  tell  you  ! 

A  bed  on  the  floor,  a  bit  of  rosin, 
A  fire  to  thaw  our  thumbs,  (poor  fellow  ! 

The  paw  he  holds  up  there's  been  frozen,) 
Plenty  of  catgut  for  my  fiddle, 

(This  out-door  business  is  bad  for  strings,  ) 
Then  a  few  nice  buckwheats  hot  from  the  griddle, 

And  Roger  and  I  set  up  for  kings  ! 

No,  thank  ye,  sir,  —  I  never  drink  ; 

Roger  and  I  are  exceedingly  moral,  — 
Aren't  we,  Roger?  —  see  him  wink  !  — 

Well,  something  hot,  then,  —  we  won't  quarrel. 
He's  thirst}',  too,  — see  him  nod  his  head? 

What  a  pity,  sir,  that  dogs  can't  talk  ! 
He  understands  every  word  that's  said. 

And  he  knows  good  milk  from  water-and-chalko 

The  truth  is,  sir,  now  I  reflect, 

I've  been  so  sadly  given  to  grog, 
I  wonder  I've  not  lost  the  respect 

(Here's  to  3'ou,  sir!)  even  of  my  dog. 
But  he  sticks  by,  through  thick  and  thin ; 

And  this  old  coat,  with  its  empty  pockets, 
And  rags  that  smell  of  tobacco  and  gin. 

He'll  follow  while  lie  has  eyes  in  his  sockets. 


THE    VAGABONDS.  573 

There  isn't  another  creature  living 

Would  do  it,  and  prove,  through  ever}-  disaster, 
So  fond,  so  faithful,  and  so  forgiving, 

To  such  a  miserable  thankless  master  ! 
No,  sir  !  —  see  him  wag  his  tail  and  grin  ! 

B}-  George  !  it  makes  my  old  eyes  water ! 
That  is,  there's  something  in  this  gin 

That  chokes  a  fellow.     But  no  matter ! 

"We'll  have  some  music,  if  you're  willing. 

And  Roger  (hem !  what  a  plague  a  cough  is,  sir !) 
Shall  march  a  little.  —  Start,  you  villain  ! 

Stand  straight !     'Bout  face  !     Salute  3'our  officer ! 
Put  up  that  paw  !     Dress  !     Take  your  rifle  ! 

(Some  dogs  have  arms,  you  see.)     Now  hold  your 
Cap,  while  the  gentlemen  give  a  trifle. 

To  aid  a  poor  old  patriot- soldier. 

March  !     Halt !     Now  show  how  the  traitor  shakes, 

"When  he  stands  up  to  hear  his  sentence  ;  — 
Now  tell  us  how  man}-  drams  it  takes 

To  honour  a  jolly  new  acquaintance. 
Five  yelps,  —  that's  five  ;  he's  mighty  knowing ! 

The  night's  before  us,  fill  the  glasses  !  — 
Quick,  sir  !     I'm  ill,  —  my  brain  is  going  !  — 

Some  brandy,  — thank  you,  — there  !  — it  passes  ! 

"Wliy  not  reform?     That's  easily  said  ; 

But  I've  gone  through  such  wretched  treatment, 
Sometimes  forgetting  the  taste  of  bread. 

And  scarce  remembering  what  meat  meant, 
That  my  poor  stomach's  past  reform  ; 

And  there  are  times  when,  mad  with  thinking, 
I'd  sell  out  Heaven  for  something  warm 

To  prop  a  horrible  inward  sinking. 

Is  there  a  way  to  forget  to  think  ? 

At  your  age,  sir,  home,  fortune,  friends, 


574  C5H0ICE    READINGS. 

A  dear  girl's  love,  —  but  I  took  to  drink  ;  — 
The  same  old  story ;  you  know  how  it  ends. 

If  you  could  have  seen  these  classic  features,  — 
You  needn't  laugh,  sir ;  they  were  not  then 

Such  a  burning  libel  on  God's  creatures : 
I  was  one  of  your  handsome  men  ! 

If  you  had  seen  her,  so  fair  and  young, 

Whose  head  was  happy  on  this  breast ! 
If  you  could  have  heard  the  songs  I  sung 

When  the  wine  went  round,  you  wouldn't  have  guess'd 
That  ever  I,  sir,  should  be  straying 

From  door  to  door,  with  fiddle  and  dog, 
Ragged  and  penniless,  and  playing 

To  you  to-night  for  a  glass  of  grog ! 

She's  married  since,  —  a  parson's  wife  : 

'Twas  better  for  her  that  we  should  part,  — 
Better  the  soberest,  prosiest  life 

Than  a  blasted  home  and  a  broken  heart. 
I  have  seen  her?     Once  :  I  was  weak  and  spent 

On  the  dusty  road,  a  carriage  stopp'd : 
But  little  she  dream'd,  as  on  she  went. 

Who  kiss'd  the  coin  that  her  fingers  dropp'd ! 

You've  set  me  talking,  sir ;  I'm  sorry  ; 

It  makes  me  wild  to  think  of  the  change  ! 
Wliat  do  you  care  for  a  beggar's  story  ? 

Is  it  amusing?   you  find  it  strange? 
I  had  a  mother  so  proud  of  me  ! 

'Twas  well  she  died  before.  —  Do  you  know 
If  the  happy  spirits  in  Heaven  can  see 

The  ruin  and  wretchedness  here  below  ? 

Another  glass,  and  strong,  to  deaden 
This  pain ;  then  Roger  and  I  will  start. 

I  wonder,  has  he  such  a  lumpish,  leaden, 
Aching  thing,  in  place  of  a  heart? 


SEAKCIllNG    FOR   THE    SLAIN.  575 

He  is  sad  sometimes,  and  would  weep,  if  he  could, 
No  doubt,  remembering  things  that  were,  — 

A  virtuous  kennel,  with  plenty  of  food, 
And  himself  a  sober,  respectable  cur. 

I'm  better  now  ;  that  glass  was  warming.  — 

You  rascal  !   limber  your  lazj-  feet ! 
We  must  be  fiddling  and  performing. 

For  supper  and  bed,  or  starve  in  the  street.  — 
Not  a  very  gay  life  to  lead,  you  think? 

Bat  soon  we  shall  go  where  lodgings  are  free. 
And  the  sleepers  need  neither  victuals  nor  drink  ;-- 

The  sooner,  the  better  for  Roger  and  me ! 


SEAEOHINa  FOR   THE   SLAIN. 

Hold  the  lantern  aside,  and  shudder  not  so; 
There's  more  blood  to  see  than  this  staiu  on  the  snow; 
There  are  pools  of  it,  lakes  of  it,  just  over  there, 
And  fix'd  faces  all  streak'd,  and  crimson-soak'd  hair. 
Did  you  think,  when  we  came,  you  and  I,  out  to-night 
To  search  for  our  dead,  you  would  see  a  fair  sight? 

You're  his  wife ;  you  love  him,  —  you  think  so ;  and  I 
Am  only  his  mother  :  my  boy  shall  not  lie 
In  a  ditch  with  the  rest,  while  my  arms  can  bear 
His  form  to  a  gi'ave  that  mine  own  may  soon  share. 
So,  if  your  strength  fails,  best  go  sit  by  the  hearth, 
WTiile  his  mother  alone  seeks  his  bed  on  the  earth. 

You  will  go?  then  no  faintings  !     Give  me  the  light, 
And  follow  my  footsteps,  —  my  heart  will  lead  right. 
Ah,  God  !  what  is  here?  a  great  heap  of  the  slain, 
All  mangled  and  gory  !  —  what  horrible  pain 
These  beings  have  died  in !     Dear  mothers,  ye  weep, 
Ye  weep,  O,  ye  weep  o'er  this  terrible  sleep  I 


576  CHOICE    READINGS. 

More !  more  !     Ah  I  I  thought  I  could  nevermore  know 
Grief,  horror,  or  pity,  for  aught  here  below. 
Since  I  stood  in  the  porch  and  heard  his  chief  tell 
How  brave  was  my  son,  how  he  gallantly  fell. 
Did  they  think  I  cared  then  to  see  officers  stand 
Before  my  great  sorrow,  each  hat  in  each  hand  ? 

Why,  girl,  do  you  feel  neither  reverence  nor  fright, 
That  your  red  hands  turn  over  toward  this  dim  light 
These  dead  men  that  stare  so  ?    Ah,  if  you  had  kept 
Your  senses  this  morning  ere  his  comrades  had  left. 
You  had  heard  that  his  place  was  worst  of  them  all,  — 
Not  'mid  the  stragglers,  —  where  he  fought  he  would  fall. 

There's  the  Moon  through  the  clouds :  O  Christ,  what  a  scene  1 

Dost  Thou  from  Thy  Heavens  o'er  such  visions  lean, 

And  still  call  this  cursed  world  a  footstool  of  Thine  ? 

Hark,  a  groan  1  there  another,  —  here  in  this  line 

Piled  close  on  each  other  !     Ah  !  here  is  the  flag. 

Torn,  dripping  with  gore  ;  —  bah !  they  died  for  this  rag. 

Here's  the  voice  that  we  seek :  poor  soul,  do  not  start  1 

We're  women,  not  ghosts.     What  a  gash  o'er  the  heart  f 

Is  there  aught  we  can  do  ?     A  message  to  give 

To  any  beloved  one  ?     I  swear,  if  I  live, 

To  take  it  for  sake  of  the  words  my  boy  said, 

"  Home,"  "  mother,"  "  wife,"  ere  he  reel'd  down  'mong  the  dead. 

But,  first,  can  you  tell  where  his  regiment  stood? 

Speak,  speak,  man,  or  point;  'twas  the  Ninth.     O,  the  blood 

Is  choking  his  voice  1     What  a  look  of  despau- ! 

There,  lean  on  my  knee,  while  I  put  back  the  hair 

From  eyes  so  fast  glazing.     O,  my  darling,  my  own, 

My  hands  were  both  idle  when  you  died  alone. 

• 
He's  dying,  —  he's  dead  !     Close  his  lids,  let  us  go. 
God's  peace  on  his  soul !     If  we  only  could  know 
Where  our  own  dear  one  lies !  —  my  soul  has  turn'd  sick ; 
Must  we  crawl  o'er  these  bodies  that  lie  here  so  thick  ? 
I  cannot  I  I  cannot  ?     How  eager  you  are ! 
One  might  think  you  were  nursed  on  the  red  lap  of  War. 


CLAUDIUS  AND  CYNTHIA,  577 

He's  not  here,  —  and  not  here.     What  wild  hopes  flash  through 

My  thoughts,  as  foot-deep  I  stand  in  tliis  dread  dew, 

And  cast  up  a  prayer  to  the  blue  quiet  sky  ! 

Was  it  you,  girl,  that  shriek'd  ?     Ah  !  what  face  doth  lie 

Upturn'd  toward  me  there,  so  rigid  and  white  ? 

O  God,  my  brain  reels !     'Tis  a  dream.     My  old  sight 

Is  dimm'd  with  these  horrors.     My  son  !     O  my  son  1 
Would  I  had  died  for  thee,  my  own,  only  one ! 
There,  lift  off  your  arms ;  let  him  come  to  the  breast 
Where  first  he  was  lull'd,  with  my  soul's  hymn,  to  rest. 
Your  heart  never  thrill'd  to  your  lover's  fond  kiss 
As  mine  to  his  baby-touch ;  was  it  for  this  ? 

He  was  yours,  too ;  he  loved  you  ?     Yes,  yes,  you're  right ; 
Forgive  me,  my  daughter,  I'm  madden'd  to-night. 
Don't  moan  so,  dear  child  ;  you're  young,  and  your  years 
INIay  still  hold  fair  hopes ;  but  the  old  die  of  tears. 
Yes,  take  him  again ;  —  ah  !  don't  lay  your  face  there ; 
See,  the  blood  from  his  wound  has  stain'd  your  loose  hair. 

How  quiet  you  are  1  —  Has  she  fainted? — her  cheek 

Is  cold  as  his  own.     Say  a  word  to  me,  —  speak  ! 

Am  I  crazed  ?     Is  she  dead  ?     Has  her  heart  broke  first  ? 

Her  trouble  Avas  bitter,  but  sure  mine  is  worst. 

I'm  afraid,  I'm  afraid,  all  alone  with  these  dead ; 

Those  corpses  are  stirring  ;  God  help  my  poor  head  1 

I'll  sit  by  my  children  until  the  men  come 

To  bury  the  others,  and  then  we'll  go  home. 

Why,  the  slain  are  all  dancing !     Dearest,  don't  move. 

Keep  away  from  my  boy ;  he's  guai'ded  by  love. 

Lullaby,  lullaby ;  sleep,  sweet  darling,  sleep ! 

God  and  thy  mother  will  watch  o'er  thee  keep. 


OLATTDIUS   AND   CYNTHIA. 

Maurice  Thompson. 

It  was  in  the  mid-spleudour  of  the  reign  of  the  Emperor 
Commodus.  Especially  desirous  of  being  accounted  the  best 
swordsmau  and  the  most  fearless  gladiator  of  Rome,  he  still 


578  CHOICE    READINGS. 

better  enjoyed  the  reputation  of  being  tlie  incomparable 
archer.  No  one  had  ever  been  able  to  compete  witli  him. 
His  success  had  rendered  him  a  monomaniac  on  the  subject 
of  archery,  affecting  him  so  deeply  indeed  that  lie  cared  more 
for  his  fame  as  a  consummate  bowman  than  for  the  dignity  and 
honour  of  his  name  as  Emperor  of  Rome.  This  l^eing  true,  it 
can  well  be  understood  how  Claudius,  by  publicly  boasting 
that  he  was  a  better  archer  than  Commodus,  had  bi'ought 
upon  himself  the  calamity  of  a  public  execution. 

But  not  even  Nero  would  have  thought  of  bringing  the 
girl  to  her  death  for  the  fault  of  the  lover. 

Claudius  and  his  3'oung  bride  had  been  arrested  together 
at  their  wedding-feast,  and  dragged  to  separate  dungeons  to 
await  the  emperor's  will.  The  rumour  was  abroad  that  a  most 
startling  scene  would  be  enacted  in  the  circus.  The  result 
was  that  all  the  seats  were  filled  with  people  eager  to  wit- 
ness some  harrowing  scene  of  death. 

Commodus  himself,  surrounded  by  a  great  number  of  his 
favourites,  sat  on  a  richly-cushioned  throne  about  midway  one 
side  of  the  enclosure.  All  was  still,  as  if  the  multitude  were 
breathless  with  expectancy.  Presentl}'  out  from  one  of  the 
openings  Claudius  and  his  young  bride  —  their  hands  bound 
behind  them  —  were  led  forth  upon  the  arena  and  forced  to 
walk  around  the  entire  circumference  of  the  place. 

The  youth  was  tall  and  nobly  beautiful,  a  very  Hercules 
in  form,  an  Apollo  in  grace  and  charm  of  movement.  His 
hair  was  blue-black  and  crisp,  his  eyes  were  dark  and  proud. 
The  girl  was  petite  and  lovely  beyond  compare.  Her  eyes 
were  gray  and  deep  as  those  of  a  goddess  ;  her  hair  was  pure 
gold,  falling  to  her  feet,  and  trailing  behind  her  as  she 
walked. 

Both  were  nude  excepting  a  short  girdle  reaching  to  the 
knees. 

At  length  the  giant  circuit  was  completed,  and  the  two 
were  left  standing  on  the  sand  about  one  hundred  and 
twent}'  feet  from  the  emperor,  who  now  arose  and  in  a  loud 
voice  said : 


CLAUDIUS  AND  CYNTHIA.  579 

•'  Behold  the  condemned  Claudius,  and  Cynthia  whom  he 
lately  took  for  his  wife.  They  are  condemned  for  the  great 
folly  of  Claudius,  that  the  Roman  people  may  know  that  Corn- 
modus  reigns  supreme.  The  crime  for  which  the}'  are  to  die 
is  a  great  one.  Claudius  has  publicl}'  proclaimed  that  he  is 
a  better  archer  than  I,  Commodus,  am.  I  am  the  Emperor 
and  the  incomparable  archer  of  Rome :  whoever  disputes  it 
dies,  and  his  wife  dies  with  him.     It  is  decreed." 

It  was  enough  to  touch  the  heart  of  even  a  Roman  to  see 
the  innocence  of  that  fair  girl's  face,  as  she  turned  it  up  in 
speechless,  tearless,  appealing  grief  and  anguish  to  that  of 
her  husband.  Her  pure  bosom  heaved  and  quivered  with  the 
awful  terror  suddenly  generated  within. 

The  youth,  erect  and  powerful,  set  his  thin  lips  firmly  and 
kept  his  eyes  looking  straight  out  before  him.  Man}-  knew 
him  as  a  trained  athlete  and  especially  as  an  almost  unerring 
archer :  they  knew  him  too,  as  a  brave  soldier,  a  true  friend, 
an  honourable  citizen.  Little  time  remained  for  such  reflec- 
tions as  might  have  arisen,  for  immediately  a  large  cage, 
containing  two  fiery-eyed  and  famished  tigers,  was  brought 
into  the  circus  and  placed  before  the  victims.  The  hungrj' 
beasts  were  excited  to  madness  by  the  smell  of  fresh  blood, 
which  had  been  smeared  on  the  bars  of  the  cage  for  that 
purpose.  They  growled  and  howled,  lapping  their  fiery 
tongues  and  plunging  against  the  door. 

A  murmur  of  remonstrance  and  disgust  ran  all  around  that 
vast  ellipse,  for  now  every  one  saw  that  the  spectacle  was  to 
be  a  foul  murder,  without  even  the  show  of  a  struggle. 

The  alert  eyes  of  Commodus  were  bent  on  the  crouching 
beasts. 

At  the  same  time  he  noted  well  the  restlessness  and  disap- 
pointment of  the  people.  He  understood  his  subjects,  and 
knew  how  to  excite  them.  The  limbs  of  the  poor  girl  had 
begun  to  give  way  under  her,  and  she  was  slowly  sinking  to 
the  ground.  This  seemed  greatly  to  affect  Claudius,  who, 
without  lowering  his  fixed  eyes,  tried  to  support  her  with  his 
body.     Despite  his  efl^brts  she  fell  in  a  helpless  heap  at  his 


580  CHOICE    READINGS. 

feet.  The  lines  ou  his  manly  brow  deepened,  and  a  slight 
ash}-  pallor  flickered  on  brow  and  e3'elids.  Bnt  he  did  not 
tremble.  He  stood  like  a  statue  of  Hercules.  Then  a 
sound  came  from  the  cage  which  no  words  can  describe,  —  the 
hungry  howl,  the  clashing  teeth,  the  hissing  breath  of  the 
tigers,  along  with  the  sharp  clang  of  the  iron  bars  spurned 
by  their  rushing  feet.  The  circus  fairly-  shook  with  the 
plunge  of  death  toward  its  victims.  Suddenly,  in  this  last 
moment,  the  maiden,  by  a  great  effort,  writhed  to  her  feet, 
and  covered  the  youth's  body  with  her  own.  Such  love  ! 
It  should  have  sweetened  death  to  that  young  man.  How 
his  eyes  flame,  immovabh'  fixed  upon  the  coming  demons  ! 
Those  who  have  often  turned  up  their  thumbs  in  this  place 
for  men  to  die,  now  hold  their  breath  in  utter  disgust  and 
sympathy. 

Look  for  a  brief  moment  upon  the  picture  ;  fifty  thousand 
faces  thrust  forward  gazing  ;  —  the  helpless  couple  lost  to 
every  thing  but  the  black  hoiTors  of  death,  quivering  from 
from  head  to  foot.  Note  the  spotless  beauty  and  unselfish 
love  of  the  girl.  Mark  well  the  stern  power  of  the  young 
man's  face.  Think  of  the  marriage  vows  just  taken,  of  the 
golden  bowl  of  bliss  a  moment  ago  at  their  j^oung  lips.  And 
now,  0,  now  look  at  the  bounding  tigers !  See  how  one 
leads  the  other  in  the  awful  race  to  the  feast.  The  girl  is 
nearer  than  the  man.  She  will  feel  the  claws  and  fangs 
first.  How  wide  those  red,  frothing  mouths  gape  !  How 
the  red  tongues  loll !  The  sand  flies  up  in  a  cloud  from  the 
armed  feet  of  the  leaping  brutes. 

There  came  from  the  place  where  Commodus  stood  a  clear 
musical  note,  such  as  might  have  come  from  the  gravest 
cord  of  a  lyre,  if  powerfully  stricken,  closel}'  followed  by  a 
keen,  far-reaching  hiss,  like  the  whisper  of  fate,  ending  in  a 
heavy  blow.     The  multitude  caught  breath  and  stared. 

The  foremost  tiger,  while  yet  in  mid-air,  curled  itself  up 
with  a  gurgling  cry  of  utter  pain,  and  with  the  blood  gush- 
ing from  its  ej-es,  ears,  and  mouth,  fell  heavily  down  dying. 
Again  the  sweet,  insinuating  twang,  the  hiss,  the  stroke. 


CLAUDIUS  AND  CYNTHIA.  581 

The  second  beast  fell  dead  or  dying  upon  the  first.  This 
explained  all.  The  Emperor  had  demonstrated  his  right  to 
be  called  the  Ro^al  Bowman  of  the  World. 

Had  the  t3'rant  been  content  to  rest  here,  all  would  have 
been  well. 

While  yet  the  beasts  were  struggling  with  death  he  gave 
orders  for  a  shifting  of  the  scenes.     He  was  insatiable. 

For  the  first  time  during  the  ordeal  the  youth's  e3'es  moved. 
The  girl,  whose  back  was  turned  toward  the  beasts,  was  still 
waitmg  for  the  crushing  horror  of  their  assault. 

A  soldier  now  approached  the  twain,  and,  seizing  the  arm 
of  each,  led  them  some  paces  further  away  from  the  Emperor, 
where  he  stationed  them  facing  each  other,  and  with  their 
sides  to  Commodus,  who  was  preparing  to  shoot  again. 

Before  drawing  his  bow,  he  cried  aloud,  "  Behold,  Com- 
modus will  pierce  the  centre  of  the  ear  of  each  !  " 

The  lovers  were  gazing  into  each  other's  eyes  still  as  stat- 
ues, as  if  frozen  by  the  cold  fascination  of  death.  Commo- 
dus drew  his  bow  with  tremendous  power,  fetching  the  cord 
back  to  his  breast,  where  for  a  moment  it  was  held  without 
the  faintest  quiver  of  a  muscle.  His  eyes  were  fixed  and 
cold  as  steel. 

The  arrow  fairly  shrieked  through  the  air,  so  swift  was  its 
flight. 

The  girl,  filled  with  ineffable  pain,  flung  up  her  white  arms, 
the  rent  thongs  fljing  away  in  the  parox^^sms  of  her  final 
struggle.  The  arrow  struck  in  the  sand  be3'ond.  Something 
like  a  divine  smile  flashed  across  her  face.  Again  the  bow- 
string rang,  and  the  arrow  leaped  awa}-  to  its  thrilling  work 
What  a  surge  the  youth  made  !  The  cord  leaped  from  his 
wrists,  and  he  clasped  the  falling  girl  in  his  embrace.  All 
eyes  saw  the  arrow  hurtling  along  the  sand  after  its  mission 
was  done.  Commodus  stood  like  fate,  leaning  forward  to 
note  the  perfectness  of  his  execution.  His  eyes  blazed  with 
eager,  heartless  triumph. 

"  Lead  them  out,  and  set  them  free,  and  tell  it  everywhere 
that  Commodus  is  the  incomparable  bowman," 


582  CHOICE    READINGS.  , 

And  then,  when  all  at  once  it  was  discovered  that  he  had 
not  hurt  the  lovers,  but  had  merely  cut  in  two  with  his  arrows 
the  cords  that  bound  their  wrists,  a  great  stir  began,  and  out 
from  a  myriad  overjoyed  and  admiring  hearts  leaped  a  storm 
of  thanks,  while,  with  the  clash  and  bray  of  musical  instru- 
ments, and  with  voices  like  the  voices  of  winds  and  seas,  and 
with  a  clapping  of  hands  like  the  rending  roar  of  tempests, 
the  vast  audience  arose  as  one  person,  and  applauded  the 
Emperor. 


SCOTLAND'S  MAIDEN  MAETYE. 

From  the  "  Baltimore  Elocutionist." 

A  TROOP  of  soldiers  waited  at  the  door, 
A  crowd  of  people  gather'd  in  the  street, 
Aloof  a  little  from  them  sabres  gleain'd, 
And  flash'd  into  their  faces.     Then  the  door 
Was  opeu'd,  and  two  women  meekly  stepp'd 
Into  the  sunshine  of  the  sweet  May-noon, 
Out  of  the  prison.     One  was  weak  and  old, 
A  woman  full  of  tears  and  full  of  woes; 
The  other  was  a  maiden  in  her  morn ; 
And  they  were  one  in  name  and  one  in  faith, 
]Mother  and  daughter  in  the  bond  of  Christ, 
That  bound  them  closer  than  the  ties  of  blood. 

The  troop  moved  on  ;  and  down  the  sunny  street 
The  people  follow'd,  ever  falling  back 
As  in  their  faces  flash'd  the  naked  blades. 
But  in  the  midst  the  women  simply  went 
As  if  they  two  were  walking,  side  by  side. 
Up  to  God's  house  on  some  still  Sabbath  morn ; 
Only  they  were  not  clad  for  Sabbath  day. 
But  as  they  went  about  their  daily  tasks : 
They  went  to  prison  and  they  went  to  death, 
Upon  their  Master's  service. 

On  the  shore 
The  troopers  halted  ;  all  the  shining  sands 
Lay  bare  and  glistering ;  for  the  tide  had 
Drawn  back  to  its  farthest  margin's  weedy  mark; 
And  each  succeeding  wave,  with  flash  and  curve, 
That  seem'd  to  mock  the  sabres  on  the  shore. 
Drew  nearer  by  a  hand-breadth.     «  It  will  be 
A  long  day's  work,"  murmur'd  those  murderous  men, 


Scotland's  maiden  martyr.  583 

As  they  slack'd  rein.     The  leader  of  the  troops 
Dismounted,  and  the  people  passing  near 
Then  heard  the  pardon  protter'd,  with  the  oath 
Renouncing  and  abjuring  part  with  all 
The  persecuted,  covenanted  folk. 
But  both  refused  the  oath;  "because,"  they  said, 
"  Unless  with  Christ's  dear  servants  w^e  have  part, 
We  have  no  part  with  Him." 

On  this  they  took 
The  elder  Margaret,  and  led  her  out 
Over  the  sliding  sands,  the  weedy  sludge, 
The  pebbly  shoals,  far  out,  and  fasten'd  her 
Unto  the  farthest  stake,  akeady  reach'd 
By  every  rising  wave,  and  left  her  there : 
And  as  the  waves  crept  round  her  feet,  she  pray'd 
"  That  He  would  firm  uphold  her  in  their  midst. 
Who  holds  them  in  the  hollow  of  His  hand." 

The  tide  flow'd  in.     And  up  and  dowm  the  shore 
There  paced  the  Provost  and  the  Laird  of  Lag,  — 
Grim  Grierson, — with  Windram  and  with  Graham; 
And  the  rude  soldiers,  jesting  with  coarse  oaths, 
As  in  the  midst  the  maiden  meekly  stood, 
Waiting  her  doom  delay'd,  said  "  she  would 
Turn  before  the  tide,  —  seek  refuge  in  their  arms 
From  the  chill  waves."     But  ever  to  her  lips 
There  came  the  wondrous  words  of  life  and  peace : 
"  If  God  be  for  us,  who  can  be  against  ?  " 
"Who  shall  divide  us  from  the  love  of  Christ?" 
"  Nor  height,  nor  depth,  nor  any  other  creature." 

From  the  crowd 
A  woman's  voice  cried  a  very  bitter  cry,  — 
"O  jSIargaret!  my  bonnie,  bonnie  Margaret! 
Gie  in,  gie  in,  my  bairnie,  dmna  ye  drown, 
Gie  in,  and  tak'  the  oath." 

The  tide  flow'd  in; 
And  so  wore  on  the  sunny  afternoon; 
And  every  fire  went  out  upon  the  hearth. 
And  not  a  meal  was  tasted  in  the  town  that  day. 
And  still  the  tide  was  flowing  in  : 
Her  mother's  voice  yet  sounding  in  her  ear. 
They  turn'd  young  ^Margaret's  face  towards  the  sea, 
Where  something  white  was  floating,  —  something 
White  as  the  sea-mew^  that  sits  upon  the  wave : 
But  as  she  look'd  it  sank ;  then  show'd  again ; 
Then  disappear'd ;  and  round  the  shore 
And  stake  the  tide  stood  ankle-deep. 


584  CHOICE    HEADINGS. 

Then  Gi'ierson 
With  cursing  vow'cl  that  he  would  wait 
No  more ;  and  to  the  stake  the  soldier  led  her 
Down,  and  tied  her  hands ;  and  round  her 
Slender  waist  too  roughly  cast  the  rope,  for 
Windram  came  and  eased  it  while  he  whisper'd 
In  her  ear,  "  Come  take  the  test,  and  ye  are  free  " ; 
And  one  cried,  "  Margaret,  say  but  God  save 
The  King !  "  "  God  save  the  King  of  His  great  grace,'' 
She  answer'd,  but  the  oath  she  would  not  take. 

And  still  the  tide  flow'd  in. 
And  drove  the  people  back  and  silenced  them. 
The  tide  flow'd  in,  and  rising  to  her  knees. 
She  sang  tlie  psalm,  "  To  Thee  I  lift  my  soul " ; 
The  tide  flow'd  in,  and  rising  to  her  waist, 
"  To  Thee,  my  God,  [  lift  my  soul,"  she  sang. 
The  tide  flow'd  in,  and  rising  to  her  throat, 
She  sang  no  more,  but  lifted  up  her  face, 
And  there  was  glory  over  all  the  sky, 
And  there  was  glory  over  all  the  sea,  — 
A  flood  of  glory,  —  and  the  lifted  face 
Swam  in  it  till  it  bow'd  beneath  the  flood. 
And  Scotland's  Maiden  Martyr  went  to  God. 


JOHNNY  EAETHOLOMEW. 

Thomas  Dunn  English. 

The  journals  this  morning  are  full  of  a  tale 
Of  a  terrible  ride  through  a  tunnel  by  rail ; 
And  people  are  call'd  on  to  note  and  admire 
How  a  hundred  or  more,  through  the  smoke-cloud  and  fire, 
Were  borne  from  all  peril  to  limbs  and  to  lives,  — 
Motl]ers  saved  to  their  children,  and  husbands  to  wives. 
But  of  him  who  perform'd  such  a  notable  deed 
Quite  little  the  journalists  give  us  to  read : 
In  truth,  of  this  hero  so  plucky  and  bold, 
There  is  nothing  except,  in  few  syllables  told, 
His  name,  which  is  Johnny  Bartholomew. 

Away  in  Nevada,  —  they  don't  tell  us  where. 
Nor  does  it  much  matter,  —  a  railway  is  there. 
Which  winds  in  and  out  through  the  cloven  ravines, 
With  glinipses  at  times  of  the  wildest  of  scenes ; 
Now  passing  a  bridge  seeming  fine  as  a  thread, 
Now  shooting  past  cliffs  that  impend  o'er  the  head, 
Now  plunging  some  black-throated  tunnel  within. 
Whose  darkness  is  roused  at  the  clatter  and  din; 


JOHNNY    BARTHOLOMEW.  585 

And  ran  every  day  with  its  train  o'er  the  road 
An  engine  that  steadily  dragg'd  on  its  load, 
And  was  driven  by  Johnny  Bartholomew. 

With  throttle-valve  down,  he  was  slowing  the  train. 
While  the  sparks  fell  around  and  behind  him  like  rain, 
As  he  came  to  a  spot  where  a  ciu've  to  the  right 
Brought  the  black,  yawning  mouth  of  a  tunnel  in  sight ; 
And,  peering  ahead  with  a  far-seeing  ken. 
Felt  a  quick  sense  of  danger  come  over  him  then. 
Was  a  train  on  tlie  track  ?    No !     A  peril  as  dire,  — 
The  further  extreme  of  the  tunnel  on  fire ! 
And  the  volume  of  smoke,  as  it  gather'd  and  roU'd, 
Shook  fearful  dismay  from  each  dun-colour'd  fold, 
But  daunted  not  Johnny  Bartliolomew. 

Beat  faster  his  heart,  though  its  current  stood  still. 
And  his  nerves  felt  a  jar  but  no  trenudous  thrill ; 
And  his  eyes  keenly  gleam'd  through  their  partly-closed  lashes. 
And  his  lips  —  not  with  fear  —  took  the  colour  of  ashes, 
"  If  we  falter,  these  people  behind  us  are  dead ! 
So  close  the  doors,  fireman ;  we'll  send  her  ahead ! 
Crowd  on  the  steam  till  she  rattles  and  swings ! 
I'll  open  the  throttle  !     "We'll  give  her  her  wings  !  " 
Shouted  he  from  his  post  in  the  engineer's  room, 
Driving  onward  perchance  to  a  terrible  doom, 
This  man  they  call  Johnny  Bartholomew. 

Firm  grasping  the  throttle  and  holding  his  breath, 
On,  on  through  the  Vale  of  the  Shadow  of  Death, 
On,  on  through  that  horrible  cavern  of  hell. 
Through  flames  that  arose  and  through  timbers  that  fell, 
Through  the  eddying  smoke  and  the  serpents  of  fii'e 
That  M^rithed  and  that  hiss'd  in  their  anguish  and  ire, 
With  a  rush  and  a  roar  like  the  wild  tempest's  blast, 
To  the  free  air  beyond  them  in  safety  they  pass'd  ! 
"While  the  clang  of  the  bell  and  the  steam-pipe's  shrill  yell 
Told  the  joy  at  escape  from  that  underground  hell. 
Of  the  man  they  caU'd  Johnny  Bartholomew. 

Did  the  passengers  get  up  a  service  of  plate  ? 

Did  some  oily-tongued  orator  at  the  man  prate? 

Women  kiss  him?     Yovmg  children  cling  fast  to  his  knees? 

Stout  men  in  their  rapture  his  brown  fingers  squeeze  ? 

And  where  was  he  born ?     Is  he  handsome?     Has  he 

A  wife  for  his  bosom,  a  child  for  his  knee? 

Is  he  young?     Is  he  old?     Is  he  tall?     Is  he  short? 

Well,  ladies,  the  Journals  tell  nought  of  the  sort ; 

And  all  that  they  give  us  about  him  to-day. 

After  telling  the  tale  in  a  connnon  place  way, 

Is  —  the  man's  name  is  Johnny  Bartholomew. 


585  CHOICE    HEADINGS. 

XIV. 
SCENES   FROM   POPULAR   DRAMAS. 


THE     HUNOHBAOK. 

James  Sheridan  Knowles. 


Act  I.     Scene  II. 

Characters  :  Julia  and  her  co7npanion  Helen. 

Scene  :  The  garden  of  Master  Walter's  house.  Town  and 
country  life  compared.  Julia  tells  of  her  loving  guardian^ 
Master  Walter. 

Enter  Julia  and  Helen. 

Hel.    I  like  not,  Julia,  this  3'our  country  life  ; 
I'm  weary  on't. 

Jul.  Indeed  ?     So  am  not  I ! 

I  know  no  other ;  would  no  other  know. 

Hel.    You  would  no  other  know  !     Would  you  not  know 
Another  relative  ?  —  another  friend, 
Another  house,  another  any  thing. 
Because  the  ones  you  have  already  please  you? 
That's  poor  content !     Would  you  not  be  more  rich, 
More  wise,  more  fair?     The  song  that  last  you  learn'd 
You  fancy  well ;  and  therefore  shall  you  learn 
No  other  song?     Your  virginal,  'tis  true, 
Hath  a  sweet  tone  ;  hut  docs  it  follow  thence, 
You  shall  not  have  another  virginal  ? 
You  may^  love,  and  a  sweeter  one  ;  and  so 
A  sweeter  life  may  find  than  this  you  lead  1 


THE    HUNCHBACK.  587 

Jul.    I  seek  it  not.     Helen,  I'm  constancy! 

Hel.    So  is  a  cat,  a  dog,  a  silly  hen, 
An  owl,  a  bat,  that  still  sojourn  where  they 
Are  wont  to  lodge,  nor  care  to  shift  their  quarters. 
Thou'rt  constancy?     I'm  glad  I  know  th}'  name.' 
The  spider  comes  of  the  same  faniil}-. 
That  in  his  meshy  fortress  spends  his  life, 
Unless  you  pull  it  down,  and  scare  him  from  it. 
And  so,  in  verj-  deed,  thou'rt  constancy  ! 

Jul.    Helen,  you  know  the  adage  of  the  tree  : 
I've  ta'en  the  bend.     This  rural  life  of  mine, 
Enjoin'd  me  hy  an  unknown  father's  will, 
I've  led  from  infancy.     Debarr'd  from  hope 
Of  change,  I  ne'er  have  sigh'd  for  change.     The  town 
To  me  was  like  the  Moon,  for  any  thought 
I  e'er  should  visit  it ;  nor  was  I  school'd 
To  think  it  half  so  h\r  ! 

Hel.  Not  half  so  fair  ! 

The  town's  the  Sun,  and  thou  hast  dwelt  in  night 
Eer  since  thy  birth,  not  to  have  seen  the  town  ! 
Their  women  there  are  queens,  and  kings  their  men ; 
Their  houses  palaces  I 

Jul.  And  what  of  that? 

Have  your  town-palaces  a  hall  like  this? 
Couches  so  fragrant?  walls  so  high-adorn'd ? 
Casements  with  such  festoons,  such  prospects,  Helen. 
As  these  fair  vistas  have?     Your  kings  and  queens  ! 
See  me  a  May-day  queen,  and,  talk  of  them  ! 

Hel.    Extremes  are  ever  neighbours.     'Tis  a  step 
From  one  to  th'  other  !     Were  thy  constancy 
A  reasonable  thing,  —  a  little  less 
Of  constancy,  —  a  woman's  constancy,  — 
T  should  not  wonder  wert  thou  ten  yeai's  hence 
The  maid  I  know  thee  now  ;  but,  as  it  is. 
The  odds  are  ten  to  one,  that  this  day  year 
Will  see  our  May-day  queen  a  city  one. 


688  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Jul.     Never !     I'm  wedded  to  a  country  life  : 
O,  did  you  hear  what  Master  Walter  says  ! 
Nine  times  in  ten,  the  town's  a  liollow  thing, 
Where  what  things  are,  is  nought  to  what  they  show : 
Where  merit's  name  laugh's  merit's  self  to  scorn ; 
Where  friendship  and  esteem,  that  ouglit  to  be 
The  tenants  of  men's  hearts,  lodge  in  their  looks 
And  tongues  alone ;  where  little  virtue,  with 
A  costly  keeper,  passes  for  a  heap,  — 
A  heap  for  none,  that  has  a  homely  one  ; 
Where  fashion  makes  the  law,  —  your  umpire  which 
You  bow  to,  whether  it  has  brains  or  not; 
Where  Folly  taketh  off  his  cap  and  bells, 
To  clap  on  Wisdom,  which  must  bear  the  jest ; 
Where,  to  pass  current,  you  must  seem  the  thing, 
The  passive  thing,  that  others  think,  and  not 
Your  simple,  honest,  independent  self. 

Hel.   Ay  ;  so  says  Master  Walter.     See  I  not 
What  you  can  find  in  Master  Walter,  Julia, 
To  be  so  fond  of  him  ! 

Jul.  He's  fond  of  me. 

I've  known  him  since  I  was  a  child.     E'en  then 
The  week  I  thought  a  weary,  heavy  one, 
That  brought  not  Master  AValter.     I  had  those 
About  me  then  that  made  a  fool  of  me. 
As  children  oft  are  fool'd  ;  but  more  I  loved 
Good  Master  Walter's  lesson  than  the  play 
With  which  they'd  surfeit  me.     As  I  grew  up, 
More  frequent  Master  Walter  came,  and  more 
I  loved  to  see  him.     I  had  tutors  then. 
Men  of  great  skill  and  learning  ;  but  not  one 
Tliat  taught  like  Master  AYalter.     What  they'd  show  me, 
And  I,  dull  as  I  was,  but  doubtful  saw, 
A  word  from  Master  Walter  made  as  clear 
As  day-light.     When  my  schooling-days  were  o'er,  — 
Tiiat's  now  good  three  years  past,  — three  years,  — I  vow 


THE    HUNCHBACK.  589 

I'm  twenty,  Helen  !  — well,  as  I  was  saying, 
When  I  had  done  with  school,  and  all  were  gone, 
Still  Master  Walter  came  ;  and  still  he  comes. 
Summer  or  Winter,  frost  or  rain.     I've  seen 
The  snow  upon  a  level  with  the  hedge, 
Yet  there  was  Master  Walter  ! 

l_3Iaster  Walter  and  Sir  Thomas  Clifford  in  the  distance. 

Ilel.  Who  comes  here? 

A  carriage,  and  a  gay  one  ;  — who  alights? 
Pshaw  !     Only  Master  Walter !     What  see  you, 
Wliicli  thus  repairs  the  arch  of  the  fair  brow, 
A  frown  was  like  to  spoil  ?  —  A  gentleman  ! 
One  of  our  town  kings  !     Mark,  —  how  say  3'ou  now? 
Wouldst  be  a  town  queen,  Julia?     Which  of  us, 
I  wonder,  comes  he  for? 

Jul.  For  neither  of  us  ; 

He's  Master  Walter's  clerk,  most  like. 

Hel.  Most  like ! 

Mark  him  as  he  comes  up  the  avenue  : 
So  looks  a  clerk  !     A  clerk  has  such  a  gait ! 
So  does  a  clerk  dress,  Julia ;   mind  his  hose,  — 
They're  very  like  a  clerk's  !  a  diamond  loop 
And  button,  note  you,  for  his  clerkship's  hat: 
O,  certainly  a  clerk  !     See,  Julia,  see, 
How  Master  Walter  bows,  and  yields  him  place, 
That  he  may  first  go  in,  — a  ver}'  clerk  ! 

Jul.    I  wonder  who  he  is. 

Hel.  Wouldst  like  to  know? 

Wouldst,  for  a  fancy,  ride  to  town  with  him? 
I  prophesy  he  comes  to  take  thee  thither. 

Jul.    He  ne'er  takes  me  to  town.     No,  Helen,  no, 
'  To  town  who  will ;  a  country  life  for  me  ! 

Hel.    We'll  see.  \^Exeuiit 


590  CHOlCt;    KEADINGS. 

Act  I.     Scene  III. 

An  Apartment  in  Master  Walter's  House. 

Chauacters  :    Julia  a7id  Clifford.      Love  at  first  sight 
Sir  Thomas  Clifford  wooes  a  rural  maid. 

Enter  Julia  followed  by  Clifford. 

Jul.    No  more  !  I  pray  3'ou,  sir,  no  more  ! 

Clif.  I  love  you  ! 

Jul.    You  mock  me,  sir  ! 

Clif.  Then  there  is  no  such  thing 

On  Earth  as  reverence.     Honour  filial,  the  fear 
Of  kings,  the  awe  of  Supreme  Heaven  itself, 
Are  only  shows  and  sounds  that  stand  for  nothing. 
I  love  you. 

Jul.  You  have  known  me  scarce  a  minute. 

Clif.    Say  but  a  moment,  still  I  say  I  love  you. 
Love's  not  a  flower  that  grows  on  the  dull  earth ; 
Springs  by  the  calendar;  must  wait  for  sun, 
For  rain  ;  matures  by  parts,  — must  take  its  time 
To  stem,  to  leaf,  to  bud,  to  blow.      It  owns 
A  richer  soil,  and  boasts  a  quicker  seed  : 
You  look  for  it,  and  see  it  not,  and,  lo ! 
E'en  while  you  look,  the  peerless  flower  is  up, 
Consummate  in  the  birth  ! 

Jul.  You're  from  the  town : 

How  comes  it,  sir,  j'ou  seek  a  country  wife? 

Clif    In  joining  contrasts  lieth  love's  delight. 
Complexion,  stature,  Nature  mateth  it, 
Not  with  their  kinds,  but  with  their  opposites. 
Hence  hands  of  snow  in  palms  of  russet  lie ; 
The  form  of  Hercules  affects  the  sylph's. 
And  breasts  that  case  the  lion's  fear-proof  heart 
Find  their  loved  lodge  in  arras  where  tremors  dwell. 


THE    HUNCHBACK.  591 

So  is't  with  habits  ;  therefore  I,  indeed, 
A  galliiut  of  the  town,  the  town  forsake, 
To  win  a  country  bride. 

Jul.  Who  marries  me, 

Must  lead  a  country  life. 

CUf.  The  life  I  love  ! 

But  fools  would  fly  from  it ;  for,  O,  'tis  sweet ! 
It  finds  the  heart  out,  be  there  one  to  find, 
And  corners  in't  where  stores  of  pleasures  lodge, 
We  never  dream' d  were  there  !     It  is  to  dwell 
'Mid  smiles  that  are  not  neighbours  to  deceit ; 
Music  whose  melody  is  of  the  heart, 
Freely  discoursed  ;   to  live  on  life,  and  feel 
The  soul  of  Nature  throbbing  to  our  own ; 
To  con  God's  mere}',  bounty,  wisdom,  power. 
And  see  Him  nearer  us. 

Jul.    \_Aside.'\  How  like  he  talks 

To  Master  Walter  !     Shall  I  give  it  o'er? 
Not  yet.  —  Thou  wouldst  not  live  one-half  a  year : 
A  quarter  mightst  thou  for  the  novelty 
Of  fields  and  trees ;  but  then  it  needs  must  be 
In  summer  time,  when  the}'  go  dress'd. 

CUf.  Not  it ! 

In  any  time,  —  say  Winter.     Fields  and  trees 
Have  charms  for  me  in  very  winter  time. 

Jul.    But  snow  may  clothe  them  then. 

CUf.  I  like  them  full 

As  well  in  snow. 

Jul.  You  do? 

CUf  I  do. 

J^d.  But  night 

Will  hide  both  snow  and  them  ;  and  that  sets  in 
Ere  afternoon  is  out.     A  heavy  thing, 
A  country  fireside  in  a  Winter's  night, 
To  one  bred  in  the  town,  where  Winter's  said 
To  beggar  shining  Summer. 


592  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Clif.  I  should  like 

A  countr}-  "Winter's  night  especially  ! 

J\d.    You'd  sleep  by  th'  fire. 

Clif.  Not  I ;  I'd  talk  to  thee. 

Jul.    You'd  tire  of  that ! 

Clif.  I'd  read  to  thee. 

Jul.  And  that ! 

Clif.    I'd  talk  to  thee  again. 

Jul.  And  sooner  tire 

Thau  first  you  did,  and  fall  asleep  at  last. 

Clif.    You  deal  too  hardly  witli  me  !     Matchless  maid, 
As  loved  instructor  brightens  dullest  wit. 
Fear  not  to  undertake  the  charge  of  me : 
A  willing  pupil  kneels  to  thee,  and  lays 
His  title  and  his  fortune  at  your  feet.  \_Exeunt, 


Act  IV.     Scene  II. 

Julia,  the  rural  maid,  becomes  a  city  belle.  She  embraces 
visions  of  pleasure.,  high  life.,  and  extravagance.  Her  lover, 
Sir  Thomas  Clifford,  ivho  accidentally  overhears  Julia  boast- 
ing of  her  extravagance,  reproves  her,  ivhereujion  she  becomes 
offended.  Soon  after  this  Sir  Thomas  loses  his  fortune,  and 
becomes  Secretary  to  the  Earl  of  Rochdale,  toho  is  also  a 
suitor  for  the  hand  o/ Julia.  She,  in  a  fit  of  offended  p)ride, 
accepts  Rochdale,  though  in  truth  she  loves  Clifford. 

Banqueting- Room  in  the  Earl  o/ Rochdale's  Mansion. 

A  letter  from  the  Earl  of  Rochdale  to  Julia,  delivered  by 
the  ptoor  Secretary,  Sir  Thomas  Clifford.  Bitter  anguish 
0/ Julia.     Love  overcomes  pride,  and  Clifford  wins. 

Jul.    \_Aloyie.']  A  wedded  bride  ! 

Is  it  a  dream?     O,  would  it  were  a  dream  ! 
How  would  I  bless  the  Sun  that  waked  me  from  it ! 


THE    HUNCHBACK.  593 

I'm  wreck'd  !     'By  mine  own  act !     What !  no  escape  ? 

None :  I  must  e'en  abide  these  hated  nuptials  : 

Hated  ?     Ay  !  own  it,  and  then  curse  th^'self 

That  madest  the  bane  thou  loathest,  for  the  love 

Thou  bear'st  to  one  who  never  can  be  thine  ! 

Yes,  love  !     Deceive  th3-self  no  longer.     False 

To  say  'tis  pity  for  his  fall ;  respect 

Engender'd  by  a  hollow  world's  disdain  ; 

'Tis  none  of  these  :   'tis  love,  —  or,  if  not  love, 

Why,  then  idolatry  !     Ay,  that's  the  name 

To  speak  the  broadest,  deepest,  strongest  passion 

That  ever  woman's  heart  was  borne  away  by. 

He  comes  !     Thou'dst  play  the  lady,  —  play  it  now  ! 

Enter  a  Servant,  conducting  Clifford  attired  as  Roch- 
dale's Secretary, 

Serv.    His  Lordship's  Secretary.  [Exit. 

Jul.    [Aside.']  Speaks  he  not? 

Or  does  he  wait  for  orders  to  unfold* 
His  business?     Stopp'd  his  business  till  I  spoke, 
I'd  hold  my  peace  forever. 

[Clifford  kneels,  presenting  a  letter. 
Does  he  kneel  ? 
A  lady  am  I  to  m}'  heart's  content ! 
Could  he  unmake  me  that  which  claims  his  knee, 
I'd  kneel  to  him,  —  I  would,  I  would  !  —  Your  will? 
Clif.    This  letter  from  my  Lord. 

Jul.  O  fate  !  who  speaks  ? 

Clif.    The  Secretar}'  of  my  Lord. 
Jul.    [Aside.]  I  breathe  ! 

I  could  have  sworn  'twas  he. 

[Makes  an  effort  to  look  at  him,  but  cannot 
So  like  the  voice  — 
I  dare  not  look,  lest  there  the  form  should  stand. 
How  came  he  by  that  voice?     'Tis  Clifford's  voice, 


594  CHOICE    READINGS. 

If  ever  Clifford  spoke.     My  fears  come  back,  — 

Clifford  the  Secretary  of  my  Lord  ! 

Fortune  hath  freaks ;  but  none  so  mad  as  that. 

It  cannot  be  —  it  should  not  be  ;  a  look, 

And  all  were  set  at  rest.  [Tr/es  again.,  hut  cannot 

So  strong  my  fears, 
Dread  to  confirm  them  takes  away  the  power 
To  try  and  end  them.     Come  the  worst,  I'll  look. 

[_Slie  tries  again,  and  is  again  unequal  to  the  task. 
I'd  sink  before  him,  if  I  met  his  eye. 

Clif.    Will' t  please  your  lad3'ship  to  take  the  letter  ? 
Jul.    [_Aside.^     There  Clifford  speaks   again !     Not  Clif- 
ford's breath 
Could  more  make  Clifford's  voice  ;  not  Clifford's  tongue 
And  lips  more  frame  it  into  Clifford's  speech. 
A  question,  and  'tis  over,  — Know  I  you? 

Clif.    Reverse  of  fortune,  lady,  changes  friends  ; 
It  turns  them  into  strangers.     What  I  am, 
I  have  not  always  been  ! 

Jul.  *  Could  I  not  name  you? 

Clif.    If  your  disdain  for  one,  perhaps  too  bold 
When  hollow  fortune  call'd  him  favourite,  — 
Now  by  her  fickleness  perforce  reduced 
To  take  a  humble  tone,  —  would  suffer  you  — 
Jul.    I  might? 
Clif.  You  might. 

Jul.  O  Clifford!   is  it  you? 

Clif.    Your  answer  to  my  Lord.  \^Gives  the  letter. 

Jtd.    [  Taking  the  letter.']  Your  Lord  ! 

Clif.    [Rising.]  Wilt  write  it? 

Or  will  it  please  you  send  a  verbal  one  ? 
I'll  bear  it  faithfully. 

Jul.    [AstonisJied.]     You'll  hear  \t? 
Clif.  Madam, 

Your  pardon,  but  my  haste  is  somewhat  urgent. 
My  Lord's  impatient,  and  to  use  dispatch 


THE    HUNCHBACK.  595 

Were  his  repeated  orders. 

J^d.  Orders!     "Well,      \_Taking  letter. 

I'll  read  the  letter,  sir.     'Tis  right  3011  mind 
His  Lordship's  orders.     They  are  paramount : 
Nothing  should  supersede  them  —  stand  beside  them : 
They  merit  all  3'our  care,  and  have  it !     Fit, 
Most  fit  they  should  I     Give  me  the  letter,  sir. 
Clif.    You  have  it,  madam. 

Jul.    \_Aside.'\  So  !     How  poor  a  thing 

I  look  !    so  lost,  while  he  is  all  himself ! 

Have  I  no  pride  ?  —  \_She  rings,  the  Servant  enters.']     Paper, 
and  pen  and  ink.  —  [^Exit  Servant. 

If  he  can  freeze,  'tis  time  that  I  grow  cold. 
I'll  read  the  letter. 

[_02)ens  it,  and  holds  it  as  about  to  read  it. 
Mind  his  orders  !    So  ! 
Quickly  he  fits  his  habits  to  his  fortunes. 
He  serves  my  Lord  with  all  his  will.     His  heart's 
In  his  vocation.     So  !     Is  this  the  letter? 
'Tis  upside  down,  —  and  here  I'm  poring  on't ! 
Most  fit  I  let  him  see  me  play  the  fool ! 
Shame  !     Let  me  be  myself  !  — 

[Servant  enters  with  matenalsfor  loriting. 
A  table,  sir, 
And  chair. 

\_Table  and  chair  brought  in.     She  sits  awhile,  gazing  on 
the  letter,  then  looks  at  Clifford. 

How  plainly  shows  his  humble  suit ! 
It  fits  not  him  that  wears  it.     I  have  wrong'd  him  : 
He  can't  be  happy,  —  does  not  look  it,  —  is  not ! 
That  eye  which  reads  the  ground  is  argument 
Enough.     He  loves  me  !     There  I  let  him  stand, 
And  I  am  sitting  ! —  \^Rises  and  2ioints  to  a  chair. 

Pray  you,  take  a  chair. 
\_He  bows,  declining  the  honour.     She  looks  at  him  awhile. 
Clifford,  why  don't  you  speak  to  me?  [  Weeps. 


596  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Clif.  I  trust 

You're  happy. 

Jul.  Happy  !     Very,  very  happy  ! 

You  see,  I  weep,  I  am  so  happy  !     Tears 
Are  signs,  you  know,  of  nought  but  happiness. 
When  first  I  saw  you,  little  did  I  look 
To  be  so  happy.     Clifford  ! 

Clif.  Madam  ? 

Jul.  Madam ! 

I  call  thee  Clifford,  and  thou  eall'st  me  Madam  ! 

Clif.    Such  the  address  my  duty  stints  me  to. 
Thou  art  the  wife-elect  of  a  proud  Earl,  — 
Whose  humble  Secretary  sole  am  I. 

Jul.    Most  right !    I  had  forgot :    I  thank  you,  sir, 
For  so  reminding  me  ;    and  give  you  joy 
That  what,  I  see,  had  been  a  burden  to  you 
Is  fairly  off  your  hands. 

Clif.  A  burden  to  me  ! 

Mean  you  j'ourself  ?     Are  you  that  burden,  Julia? 
Say  that  the  Sun's  a  burden  to  the  Earth ; 
Say  that  the  blood's  a  burden  to  the  heart ; 
Sa}-  health's  a  burden,  peace,  contentment,  joy, 
Fame,  riches,  honours  ;    every  thing  that  man 
Desires,  and  gives  the  name  of  blessing  to,  — 
E'en  such  a  burden  Julia  were  to  me, 
Had  fortune  let  me  wear  her. 

Jul.    [_Aside.'\  On  the  brink 

Of  what  a  precipice  I'm  standing  !     Back, 
Back  !  while  the  faculty  remains  to  do't : 
A  minute  longer,  not  the  whirlpool's  self's 
More  sure  to  suck  thee  down.     One  effort !     [^Stis.]     There  ! 
\^Recovers  her  self-possession^  and  reads  the  letter. 
To  wed  to-morrow  night !     Wed  whom  ?     A  man 
Whom  I  can  never  love  !     I  should  before 
Have  thought  of  that.     To-morrow  night !   this  hour 
To-morrow  !     How  I  tremble  !     Happy  bands, 


THE    HUNCHBACK.  597 

To  which  my  heart  such  freezing  welcome  gives, 
As  sends  an  ague  through  me  !     At  what  means 
Will  not  the  desperate  snatch  !     What's  honour's  price  ? 
Nor  friends,  nor  lovers;  no,  nor  life  itself!  — 
Clifford,  this  moment  leave  me  ! 

[Clifford  retires  up  the  stage. 
And  is  he  gone? 
O  docile  lover  !     Do  his  mistress'  wish 
That  went  against  his  own  !     Do  it  so  soon  ! 
Ere  well  'twas  utter'd  !     No  good-bye  to  her  ! 
No  word  !   no  look  !     'Twas  best  that  so  he  went. 
Alas  !   the  strait  of  her  who  owns  that  best 
Which  last  she'd  wish  were  done  !     What's  left  me  now  ? 
To  weep,  to  weep  ! 

[_Leans  her  head  upon  her  arm,  which  rests  upon  the  table, 
her  other  arm  hanging  listless  at  her  side.  Clifford 
comes  down  the  stage,  looks  a  moment  at  her,  approaches 
her,  and  kneeling,  takes  her  hand. 

Clif.    [  With  stifled  emotion."]     My  Julia  ! 

Jul.  Here  again? 

Up  !   up  !     By  all  thy  hopes  of  Heaven,  go  hence  ! 
To  stay's  perdition  to  me  !     Look  you,  Clifford, 
WevG  there  a  grave  where  thou  art  kneeling  now 
I'd  walk  into't,  and  be  inearth'd  alive. 
Ere  taint  should  touch  my  name.     Should  some  one  come 
And  see  thee  kneeling  thus  !     Let  go  my  hand  ! 
Remember,  Clifford,  I'm  a  promised  bride  ; 
And  take  thy  arm  away  :  it  has  no  right 
To  clasp  my  waist.     Judge  you  so  poorly  of  me, 
As  think  I'll  suffer  this  ?     My  honour,  sir  ! 

[She  breaks  from  him,  qiUtting  her  seat;  he  rises 
I'm  glad  you've  forced  me  to  respect  myself ; 
You'll  find  that  I  can  do  so  ! 

Clif.  I  was  bold, — 

Forgetful  of  your  station  and  ray  own. 
There  was  a  time  I  held  your  hand  unchid } 


598  CHOICE    READINGS. 

There  was  a  time  I  might  have  clasp'd  your  waist ; 
I  had  forgot  that  time  was  past  and  gone  : 
I  pray  j'ou,  pardon  me. 

Jul.    \_Softened.'\  I  do  so,  Clifford. 

Clif.    I  shall  no  more  of!end. 

Jul.  Make  sure  of  that. 

No  longer  is  it  fit  thou  keep'st  thy  post 
In's  Lordship's  household.     Give  it  up.     A  day, 
An  hour  remain  not  in  it. 

Clif.  Wherefore  ? 

Jul.  Live 

In  the  same  house  with  me,  and  I  another's? 
Put  miles,  put  leagues  between  us  !     The  same  land 
Should  not  contain  us  :  oceans  should  divide  us, 
With  barriers  of  constant  tempests,  such 
As  mariners  durst  not  tempt !     0  Clifford  ! 
Rash  was  the  act  so  light  that  gave  me  up. 
That  stung  a  woman's  pride,  and  drove  her  mad, 
Till,  in  her  frenzy,  she  destroy'd  her  peace  : 
0,  it  was  rashl}^  done  !     Had  you  reproved, 
Expostulated,  had  you  reason'd  with  me. 
Tried  to  find  out  what  was  indeed  my  heart, 
I  would  have  shown  it, — you'd  have  seen  it.     All 
Had  been  as  nought  can  ever  be  again  ! 

Clif.    Lovest  thou  me,  Julia? 

Jul.  Dost  thou  ask  me,  Clifford? 

Clif.    These  nuptials  may  be  shunn'd,  — 

Jul.  With  honour? 

Clif.  Yes. 

Jul.    Then  take  me  !     Stop,  — hear  me,  and  take  me  then. 
Let  not  thy  passion  be  my  counsellor ! 
Deal  with  me,  Clifford,  as  my  brother.     Be 
The  jealous  guardian  of  nu'  spotless  name  ! 
Win  me  and  wear  me  !     May  I  trust  thee  ?     O, 
If  that's  thy  soul,  that's  looking  through  thine  eye, 
Thou  lovest  me,  and  I  may  ! 


THE    HUNCHBACK.  599 

CUf.  As  life  is  mine, 

The  ring  that  goes  thy  wedding  finger  on, 
No  hand  save  mine  shall  place  there  ! 

Jid.  Yet  a  word  : 

By  all  thy  hopes  most  dear,  be  true  to  me  ! 
Go  now  ;  —  yet  stay  !     O  Clifford  !  while  you're  here, 
I'm  like  a  bark  distress'd  and  compassless, 
That  by  a  beacon  steers  ;  —  when  you're  away, 
That  bark  alone,  and  tossing  miles  at  sea  ! 
Now  go  !     Farewell!     My  compass — beacon  —  land! 
When  shall  mine  eyes  be  bless'd  with  thee  again? 

CUf.   Farewell !  \_Exeunt, 


Act  V.     Scene  I. 

Characters  :  Helen  and  Modus.  The  courtship  of  an 
artful  girl  and  bashful  lover.  Modus,  while  at  college,  reads 
Ocid's  '■'■  Art  of  Love"  hut  fails  in  the  practical  x>art  of  it 
until  taught  by  Helen.  Love  finally  trium,phs  over  bashful- 
ness,  with  happy  residt. 

Helen  and  Modus  stand  at  opposite  wings,  make  a  long 
pause,  then  bashfully  look  at  each  other. 

Hel.     Why,  cousin  Modus  !     What !  will  you  stand  by 
And  see  me  forced  to  marry?    'Cousin  Modus, 
Have  you  not  got  a  tongue  ?     Have  you  not  eyes  ? 
Do  you  not  see  I'm  very  —  very  ill? 
And  not  a  chair  in  all  the  corridor? 

Mod.    I'll  find  one  in  the  study.  \_Going. 

Hel.    Hang  the  study  ! 

Mod.    My  room's  at  hand.     I'll  fetch  one  thence.   \_Going. 

Hel.    You  sha'n't !     I'll  faint  ere  you  come  back  ! 

Mod.    What  shall  I  do? 

Hel.    Why  don't  you  offer  to  support  me  ?     Well, 


600  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Give  me  your  arm, — be  quick  !    [^Iodvs  offers  his  arm. ^    Is 

that  the  wa}- 
To  help  a  lady  when  she's  like  to  faint? 
I'll  drop  unless  you  catch  me  ! 

[Falls  against  him.  —  He  su^tports  her."]     That  will  do  ; 
I'm  better  now.     \_He  offers  to  leave  her.']     Don't  leave  me  ! 

is  one  well 
Because  one's  better?     Hold  my  hand.     Keep  so. 
Well,  cousin  Modus? 

Mod.  Well,  sweet  cousin? 

Hel.  Well? 

You  heard  what  Master  AValter  said  ? 

Mod.  I  did. 

Hel.    And  would  you  have  me  marry?     Can't  you  speak? 
Say  yes  or  no. 

Mod.  No,  cousin. 

Hel.  Bravely  said. 

And  why,  my  gallant  cousin? 

Mod.  Why? 

Hel.  Ah,  why — 

Women,  you  know,  are  fond  of  reasons  —  why 
Would  you  not  have  me  marry  ?     How  you  blush  ! 
You  mind  me  of  a  story  of  a  cousin 
Who  once  her  cousin  such  a  question  asked. 
He  had  not  been  to  college,  though  ;  for  books, 
Had  pass'd  his  time  in  reading  ladies'  eyes, 
Which  he  could  construe  marvellously  well. 
Thus  stood  they  once  together,  on  a  day, — 
As  we  stand  now, — discoursed,  as  we  discourse, — 
As  now  I  question'd  thee,  she  question'd  him, 
And  what  was  his  reply?     To  think  of  it 
Sets  m}'  heart  beating, — 'twas  so  kind  a  one, 
So  like  a  cousin's  answer,  —  a  dear  cousin, 
A  gentle,  honest,  gallant,  loving  cousin  ! 
What  did  he  sa}'  ?     A  man  might  find  it  out. 
Though  never  read  he  Ovid's  "Art  of  Love." 


THE   HUNCHBACK.  601 

What  did  he  say  ?     He'd  marry  her  himself ! 
How  stupid  are  you,  cousin  !     Let  me  go.' 

Mod.    You  are  uot  well  yet. 

Hel.  Yes. 

Mod.  I'm  sure  you're  not. 

Hel.    I'm  sure  I  am. 

Mod.  Na}',  let  me  hold  you,  cousin  : 

I  like  it. 

Hel.       Do  you  ?     I  would  wager  you 
You  could  not  tell  me  why.     Well  ?     How  you  stare  ! 
What  see  you  in  my  face  to  wonder  at? 

Mod.    A  pair  of  eyes. 

Hel.    \^Aside.^  At  last  he'll  find  his  tongue.  — 

And  saw  you  ne'er  a  pair  of  eyes  before? 

3fod.    Not  such  a  pair. 

Hel.  And  wh}'? 

Mod.  They  are  so  bright ! 

You  have  a  Grecian  nose. 

Hel.  Indeed ! 

Mod.  Indeed ! 

Hel.    What  kind  of  mouth  have  I  ? 

Mod.  A  handsome  one. 

[  never  saw  so  sweet  a  pair  of  lips  : 
[  ne'er  saw  lips  at  all  till  now,  dear  cousin ! 

Hel.    Cousin,  I'm  well,  —  you  need  not  hold  me  now. 
Do  you  not  hear?     I  tell  you  I  am  well ; 
I  need  your  arm  no  longer;  take't  away  ! 
80  tight  it  locks  me,  'tis  with  pain  I  breathe : 
Let  me  go,  cousin  !     Wherefore  do  you  hold 
Your  face  so  close  to  mine?     What  do  you  mean? 

Mod.    You've  question'd  me,  and  now  I'll  question  you. 

Hel.    What  would  you  learn  ? 

Mod.  The  use  of  lips? 

Hel.  To  speak 

Mod.    Nought  else? 

Hel.  How  bold  my  modest  cousin  grows ! 

Why,  other  use  know  you? 


602  CHOICE   READINGS. 

Mod.  I  do. 

Hel.  Indeed ! 

You're  wondrous  wise  !     And  pray,  what  is  it? 

3focL  This ! 

\_Attempts  to  hiss  her, 

Hel.    Soft !     My  hand  thanks  you,  cousin  ;  for  m}-  lips, 
I  keep  them  for  a  husband.     Na}-,  stand  otT! 
I'll  not  be  held  in  manacles  again. 
Why  do  you  follow  me  ? 

Mod.  I  love  3'ou,  cousin  ! 

Hel.    O  cousin,  say  you  so?     That's  passing  strange! 
A  thing  to  sigh  for,  weep  for,  languish  for, 
And  die  for ! 

Mod.  Die  for? 

Hel.  Yes,  with  laughter,  cousin  ; 

For  truly  I  love  you. 

Mod.  And  you'll  be  mine? 

Hel.    I  will. 

Mod.  Your  hand  upon  it. 

Hel.  Hand  and  heart. 

Hie  to  thy  dressing-room,  and  I'll  to  mine, — 
Attire  thee  for  the  altar, — so  will  I. 
"Whoe'er  may  claim  me,  thou'rt  the  man  shall  have  me. 
Away  !     Dispatch  !     But  hark  you,  ere  you  go  : 
Ne'er  brag  of  reading  Ovid's  ' '  Art  of  Love  "  ! 

Mod.    And  cousin,  stop, — one  little  word  with  3-ou  ! 

[BecTioyis  Helen  over  to  him,  snatches  a  kiss.  She  runs  off; 
he  takes  the  book  from  his  bosom,  which  he  had  put  there 
informer  scene,  looks  at  it,  and  throws  it  down.     Exit. 


INGOAIAU,    THE    liARBAKIAN.  603 

INGOMAE,   THE   BAKBAEIAN. 

Frederick  Halm:   Transia/ed iy  Maria  "Lovbia.. 


Act  I.     Scene  I. 

Chauacters  :  Actea,  Myron's  wife;  Parthenia,  their 
daughter,  a  beautiful  young  Greek  girl;  and  Polydoe,  a 
■wealthy,  miserly  old  widower,  who  wishes  to  contract  for  the 
hand  of  Parthenia. 

Scene  :  3Iassilia,  the  market-place,  i7i  front  of  an  archway 
ivhich  crosses  the  back  of  the  stage.  In  the  foreground^  on 
the  right,  Myron's  and  another  house;  a  spinning -ivheel  and 
basket  in  front  of  Myron's  house.     Opposite  to  it  the  house 

of  POLYDOR. 

Enter  Actea,  from  the  House. 

Act.    The  Sun  is  nearly  set ;  the  city  gates 
Will  quickly  close,  yet  Myron  comes  not  home : 
Parthenia,  too,  wild  girl !  freed  from  her  task, 
Flies  like  a  bird  unfetter'd  from  her  cage.  — 
Parthenia  !  daughter  !  child  ! 

Enter  Parthenia. 

Par.  Well,  mother  dear ! 

Act.    Ah !  truant,  see,  here  lies  thy  work  undone, 
And  evening  near. 

Par.  I've  spun  enough  to-day  ; 

And  yonder  are  our  neighbours  gathering  olives  ; 
I'll  help  them.  \_Going. 

Act.  No !  thou  shalt  remain  with  me ; 

And  listen,  wild  one  :  thou  hast  long  enough 
Wasted  the  hours  in  trifling  children's  play,  — 
'Tis  time  to  end  it :  so  now  sit  thee  down, 
And,  if  thou  canst,  be  serious  for  once. 

Par.   Yes,  mother  dear,  I  hear, 

[_She  seats  herself  listlessly  at  the  wheel. 


604  CHOICE   READINGS. 

Act.  Bethink  thee,  child, 

This  Polydor  is  rich,  —  a  man  in  years, 
'Tis  true,  but  rich, — ^a  widower,  indeed, 
But  much  respected,  and  of  quality  : 
He  asks  thy  hand  ;  dost  listen? 

Pa7\    [Starting.']  Yes,  O,  yes. 

Act.   Ah,  so  thou  always  say'st ;  yet  I  may  speak. 
Talk  by  the  liour,  while  all  thy  busy  thoughts 
Wander  through  fields  and  woods,  as  thou  thyself. 
Chasing  the  butterflies  ;  but  now  'tis  time. 
Though  with  spring  blood,  to  think  of  coming  Autumn.  — 
'Tis  time  to  think  of  marriage  ;  j'et  already 
Thou  hast  rejected  Medon. 

Par.    [Coming  forivard.']     O!  he  was  old, 
Gray-headed,  gouty,  coarse,  — 

Act.  Evander,  then. 

Par.    Evander  !     Yes,  he  had  a  fox's  cunning, 
With  a  hygena's  heart,  and  monkey's  form. 

Act.    Mad,  foolish  girl !  go,  trample  down  thy  fortune, 
Until  repentance  comes  too  late  !     Thou  think'st 
Thyself  unequall'd,  doubtless  ;  loveh',  rich. 

Par.    Young  am  I,  mother ;  joyous,  happy,  too. 

[Embracing  her 
And  30U,  you  love  me !  what  can  I  wish  more? 
Yes,  30U  do  love  me  ! 

Act.  Love  thee  !  ay,  and  well 

Dost  thou  deserve  our  love  ! 
Why  do  I  fold  thee  thus  within  my  arms  ? 
We  love  thee,  but  thou  lovest  us  not. 

Par.    Not  love  thee,  mother? 

Act.  No  ;  or,  as  our  will, 

So  would  thine  own  be :  thou  wouldst  let  us  choose 
Thy  husband. 

Par.  No,  dear  mother,  no,  — not  him. 

Act.  What  dost  thou  hope  for,  then  ?  Perhaps  thou  think'st 
The  Man-i'-the-moon  would  be  thj'  fitting  spouse  : 
What  wait'st  thou  for,  I  say? 


INGOMAK,    THE    UARBARIAN.  605 

Par.    I'll  toll  thee,  mother  :   I  was  but  a  child, 
A.nd  3'et  I  mark'd  it  well ;  yon  sang  to  me 
Of  Hero  and  Leander,  and  their  love  ; 
And  when  I  ask'd  thee,  wondering,  what  love  was, 
Then,  with  uplifted  hands  and  laughing  ej'es, 
Thou  told'st  me  how,  into  the  lonely  heart 
Love  sudden  comes  unsought,  then  grows  and  grows, 
Feeble  at  first,  like  dawn  before  the  Sun, 
Till,  bursting  every  bond,  it  breaks  at  last 
Upon  the  startled  soul  with  hope  and  joy. 
While  ever\'  bounding  pulse  cries,  "  That  is  he 
AVho  carries  in  his  breast  my  heart,  my  soul : 
With  him,  O,  may  I  live,  and  with  him  die ! " 
So,  when  old  Medon  and  Evander  came 
To  woo,  I  laid  my  hand  upon  my  heart, 
A.nd  listen'd,  listen'd,  but,  no  !  all  was  still, 
A.11  silent ;  no  response,  no  voice  ;  and  so 
I'm  waiting,  mother,  till  my  heart  shall  speak! 

Act.    [^Aside.'\      Good   gods !    'tis   thus   we   let   our   old 
tongues  prattle. 
While  young  ears  listen.  —  So,  thou  foolish  child, 
'Tis  that  thou  waitest  for,  —  th}-  heart  must  speak ! 
[  prattled  nonsense,  a  child's  tale,  a  dream  ! 
I  tell  thee,  there's  no  second  will  come  to  thee 
Like  Poly  dor,  so  rich,  so  honourable. 

Par.    Honourable ! 
Beats  down  my  needy  father  in  his  wares, 
Higgles  and  bargains. 

Act.  That  thou  understandest  not. 

He  is  a  careful  and  a  saving  merchant : 
Think,  think,  my  child,  — sa^'  yes,  —  for  ray  sake,  do  ; 
Say  3'es,  my  child. 

Par.    Hold,  mother  :  I  will  never  wander  more 
Through  woods  and  fields  ;  like  other  girls,  will  spin, 
Will  work,  will  read  thy  wishes  in  thine  e3"es ; 
But  him,  that  Polydor,  I  cannot,  will  not  — 
No,  never,  never! 


606  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Act.  Never  ? 

Par.  Thou  art  angry  ! 

Act.   Away  !  have  I  not  cause  enough  for  anger? 
Thy  parents  now  grow  old,  and  long  for  rest ; 
Thy  father,  a  poor  armourer,  in  the  fields, 
Labours  and  toils  all  day  ; 
Then  must  he  hammer  at  the  forge  by  night ; 
And  when  the  tillage  rests,  that  cannot  he. 
But  sets  out,  laden  heavily,  as  now,  with  arms, 
To  offer  them  for  sale  in  neighbouring  villages. 

Par.   Poor  father ! 

Act.    Poor,  poor,  indeed !    Then  I  remain  at  home, 
'Tis  true  ;  yet  go  I  forth  in  thought,  and  carry 
With  him  the  burden  of  the  goods  :  with  him  I  pant 
Up  the  rough  mountain's  slipper}'  path,  and  feel 
The  pelting  storms  which  soak  his  weary  limbs, 
And  think,  that  even  now,  in  the  dark  valley 
The  wild  Allobroges  or  fierce  Allemanni 
Attack  him,  rob  him,  murder  him,  perhaps ! 

Par.    O  mother,  mother  ! 

Act.    So  must  I  weep,  and  weep.     But  thou, 
Thou  whom  he  loves,  for  whom  he  e'en  would  die, 
For  whom  he  risks  his  blood,  his  limbs,  his  life,  — 
Thou,  thou  mightst  spare  him  from  all  weariness, 
Mightst  dry  my  tears,  make  happy  our  old  age, 
Be  so  thyself.     But  no  !  thou  canst,  yet  wilt  not. 
Go,  go,  thou  selfish  and  ungrateful  child !     [Exit  into  house. 

Par.    \_After  a  pause."]     Ungrateful !    no,  ye   gods,  that 
am  I  not. 
Ungrateful  to  my  father !  —  No  !  and  yet 
For  me  does  the  rough  storm  beat  on  his  head  j 
For  me  he  staggers  'neath  his  heavy  loads, 
And  totters,  panting  up  the  mountain  sides. 
Yes,  yes ;  I'll  show  my  mother  she  is  wrong ; 
It  shall  not  be.     But  yet  what  would  I  do? 
Unite  myself  to  age,  to  avarice? 
That  is  to 'die  !  to  die,  —  'twere  better  far! 


INGOMAR,    THE    BARBARIAN.  607 

But  yet  it  must  be  so  :  —  farewell,  sweet  dreams  !     [^Pmises. 

And  once  the  future  lay  so  bright  before  me  : 

There  shone  the  scarce-form'd  hope,  the  mystic  joy  ;  — 

Let  all  be  fancy,  —  love  be  but  a  dream ;  — 

All  is  a  fable  that  adorns  our  life, 

And  but  the  passing  day  alone  is  real ! 

Well,  be  it  so.     Parthenia  wakes  to  duty  ! 

And  now,  sweet  visions  of  my  youth,  farewell ! 

My  father  now  shall  labour  hard  no  more,  — 

Shall  rest.     Ah  !  who  comes  here  ?  'tis  Poly  dor  ! 

I'll  fl3%  — yet  no  !  I  will  remain  :  if  my  happiness 

Must  be  put  up  for  sale,  then  let  the  price 

Be  well  secured  for  which  I  barter  it. 

What  looks  he?   pride,  ill-temper,  avarice, — 

And  I  his  wife.     It  makes  my  heart  grow  cold. 

[^She  approaches  her  sjnnniyig-wheel,  at  which 

she  sits  to  work. 

Enter  Polydor. 

Pol.    [^Soliloqtdzing.']    This  will  not  do,  the  slave  impover- 
ishes me  ; 
There  is  no  doing  without  a  wife,  —  it  must  be. 

Par.  [^Aside.']  Does  he  not  look  as  though  he  had  the  weight 
O'  the  world  upon  his  thoughts  ?  and  yet  I  wager 
He  only  thinks  on  pigs  and  geese. 

Pol.    Nothing  replaces  Kallinike  to  me : 
She  was  a  true  heart,  — she  could  work,  could  save  ! 
But  then  the  armourer's  daughter,  —  could  she? 
Ah,  she  is  there  herself  I   she's  young,  she's  pretty  : 
So  —  yes  —  no  —  well,  so  be  it.  — 

\_Approacliing  and  addressing  Parthenia 
Good  day,  fair  maid.     Good  day  ! 

Par.    Say,  rather,  evening,  while  the  Sun  is  sinking. 

Pol.    Can  it  be  evening  wliile  thy  bright  eyes  shine  ? 

Par.    Awa}',  sir,  with  fine  words  !   we  will  speak  plainly. 
They  tell  me  you  pi'opose  to  marr}-  me. 

Pol.    Ah  !    that  is  plain,  — that's  coming  to  the  point.  — 


608  CHOICE    RKADINOS. 

A.las  !    her  fond  impatience  cannot  wait.  — 
Yes,  yes,  such  is  my  thought. 

Par.    My  mother  told  me  so  :  and  yet  I  wonder 
Thy  choice  should  fall  on  me  ;    how  soon,  it  seems, 
You  have  forgotten  Kallinike  ! 

Pol.    Forgotten  ?     No,  indeed  ;    a  man  like  me 
Forgets  not  gold,  nor  goods,  nor  the  worth  of  goods, 
And  that  was  she  to  me ;  yet  weighty  reasons 
Press  on  me  a  new  choice,  my  children  — 

Par.   Ay,  poor  orphans ! 

Pol.   Poor  they  are  not ;  but  the}'  are  troublesome, 
Gluttonous  pigs,  —  wild,  rude,  unruly  boys. 
Shall  I,  at  great  expense,  hire  a  schoolmaster 
From  Samos  or  Miletus  ?     Gentleness 
Best  rules  rough  strength,  and  thou  indeed  art  gentle. 

Par.    Gentle  !     O  yes,  as  gentle  as  a  lamb 
Led  to  the  sacrifice. 

Pol.    Besides,  I'm  often  far  from  home  ;  my  business 
Now  calls  me  to  the  market,  now  to  the  harbour : 
And  shall  a  slave  meanwhile  keep  house  for  me. 
And  farm,  and  warehouse?  guard  my  well-fill'd  coffers? 
That  only  can  a  wife,  only  a  true  wife. 
And  then,  too,  I  grow  old,  am  often  sick : 
And  who  would  tend  me  then?   make  ready  for  me 
The  warm  room,  and  prepare  my  drink  and  physic? 
Ah  !    only  a  fond  wife. 

Par.  O,  my  poor  heart ! 

Pol.    'Tis  thou  shalt  be  that  wife,  and  thou  shalt  make 
me 
Strong,  3'oung  again  ;   thy  love,  my  pretty  rosebud,  — 

Par.    Away  !    and  listen  now  to  me  : 
Thou  know'st  my  father  tills  the  fields  b}'  day, 
And  at  the  anvil  works  by  night,  and  then 
Upon  his  shoulders  carries  to  a  distance 
His  wares  for  sale  ;   that  he  is  now  in  years, 
And  wants  repose :  say,  then,  when  I  am  thine, — 
Say,  wilt  thou  think  of  my  poor  father? 


INGOMAR,    THE    BARBARIAN.  609 

Pol.    Ay,  certainly  I  will;    how  could  I  otherwise? 
Yes,  yes,  I  will,  — I  will  think  of  thy  father. 

Pai.    And  do? —  what  wilt  thou  do  for  him? 

Pol.    O,  he  shall  be  advanced,  for  he  will  be 
My  father-in-law,  the  father-in-law  of  Polydor, 
Of  the  rich  I*olydor ;  and  from  the  gods 
My  lineage  springs : 
Think  what  an  honour ;  from  the  gods,  m}-  child  ! 

Par.    But  honour  gives  not  food  :  what  wilt  thou  do  ? 

Pol.    Well,  in  the  first  place,  buy,  as  hitherto, 
His  wares  at  a  good  price. 

Par.   At  a  good  price  !  — That  is,  good  for  thyself . 
Well,  and  what  more? 

Pol.    What  more  !  Wh}-,  then  again,  then  will  I  — 
Observe  me  now,  and  bear  in  mind,  girl,  — know 
I'll  take  thee  without  dowry,  — -  yes,  entirely 
Without  a  dowry  ;  true  as  thou'rt  alive, 
I'll  take  thee,  ay,  without  a  drachma ! 

Par.    But  what  do  for  my  father? 

Pol.  Is  not  that 

To  do?  and  plenty,  too,  I  think. 

Par.  No  more? 

Pol.    No  more  !  almost  too  much. 

Par.    By  all  the  gods,  yes,  it  is  quite  too  much  ; 
And  so,  good  evening.  \_Going 

Pol.    No,  stay, — thou  shalt  not  go  without  an  answer. 

Par.    An  answer  thou  shalt  have,  and  mark  it  well : 
Procure  your  children,  sir,  a  schoolmaster 
At  any  price,  and  whence  you  please  ;  a  slave 
To  guard  your  house,  attend  to  bolts  and  bars  ; 
Shouldst  thou  fall  sick,  there,  at  the  corner  yonder, 
Go,  bid  the  huckster  sell  thee  wholesome  herbs ; 
Mix  for  thyself  thy  medicine  and  thy  drink : 
But  know,  for  me  there  grows  no  bitterer  herb 
On  Earth  than  sight  of  thee  !     Now  —  mark  it  well  — 
This  is  my  answer,  thou  poor,  heartless  miser  ! 
So  fare  thee  well,  descendant  of  the  gods !    \Exit  into  house. 


610  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Pol.    [^Standing  looking  after  her  for  a  time.'\    What's 
that?  did  I  hear  right?  she  turns  me  out? 
Me,  the  rich  Polydor !     The  armourer's  child 
Scorns  me,  the  rich  descendant  of  the  gods, 
As  though  I  were  her  father's  fellow- workman ; 
Disdains  me  !  mocks  me  !     There's  no  bitterer  herb 
On  Earth  than  sight  of  me  !     Yes,  and  it  shall 
Be  bitter  to  thee,  and  to  others,  too. 
I'll  have  revenge  !     What  shall  I  do  ?     I'll  take 
No  more  swords  of  him,  I'll  buy  up  the  rights 
Of  all  his  creditors,  summon  him  to  justice; 
I  wiU ;  I'll  drive  him  from  his  house  and  home, 
Ay,  from  the  city,  —  him  and  his  saucy  child. 
That  will  I !     Yes  ;  I'll  force  out  his  last  drachma. 
O,  I'll  not  rest  until  I've  had  revenge  !  [Exit 


Act  II.     Scene  I. 

The  camp  of  the  Alemanni  in  the  Cevennes  Mountain. 

Characters  :  Ingomar,  the  barbarian  and  chief  of  the 
Alemanni ;  Parthenia,  ivho  has  given  up  herself  to  the 
barbarians  as  a  ransom  for  her  father,  Myron.  Myron 
has  been  sent  back  to  Massilia,  whence  he  was  cap)tured; 
and,  as  he  is  forced  along  amid  the  jeers  and  taunts  of  the 
Alemanni,  Parthenia  looks  toward  him,  and  speaks: 

Far.    O,  I  shall  never  see  him  more  ! 

Ing.  What !  have  we 

For  a  silly  old  man,  got  now  a  foolish 
And  timid  weeping  girl?     I've  had  enough 
Of  tears. 

Par.       Enough,  indeed,  since  you  but  mock  them  ! 
I  will  not,  — no,  I'll  weep  no  more. 

\_She  quickly  dries  her  eyes,  and  retires  to  the  background 

Ing.    That's  good;  come,  that  looks  well : 
She's  a  brave  girl !  she  rules  herself,  and,  if 


INGOMAK,    THE    BARBAKIAN.  611 

She  keep  her  word,  we've  made  a  good  exchange. 
"  I'll  weep  no  more."     Aha  !  I  like  the  girl. 
And  if — Ho  !  whither  goest  tliou? 

[To  Parthenia,  ^oho  is  going  off  with  two  goblets. 

Par.    Where  should  I  go?  to  yonder  brook,  to  cleanse  the 
cups. 

Ing.    No  !  sta}'  and  talk  with  me. 

Par.    I  liave  duties  to  perform.  \_Going. 

Ing.    Stay,  —  I  command  you,  slave ! 

Par.    1  am  no  slave  !  your  hostage,  but  no  slave. 
I  go  to  cleanse  the  cups.  \Exit. 

Ing.    Ho  !  here's  a  self-will'd  thing,  —  here  is  a  spirit ! 

\_Mimicking  her. 
' '  I  will  not,  I'm  no  slave  !     I've  duties  to  perform  ! 
Take  me  for  hostage  !  "  and  she  flung  back  her  head 
As  though  she  brought  with  her  a  ton  of  gold ! 
"  I'll  weep  no  more,"  —  Aha  !  an  impudent  thing. 
She  pleases  me  !     I  love  to  be  opposed  ; 
I  love  my  horse  when  he  rears,  m^'  dogs  when  they  snarl, 
The  mountain  torrent,  and  the  sea,  when  it  flings 
Its  foam  up  to  the  stars :  such  things  as  these 
Fill  me  with  life  and  joy.     Tame  indolence 
Is  living  death :  the  battle  of  the  strong 
Alone  is  life. 

[During  this  speech  Parthenia  has  returned  with  the  cups 
and  a  bundle  of  field  fioivers.  She  seats  herself  on  a 
piece  of  rock  in  front. 

Ah  !    here  she  is  again. — [_He  approaches  her^ 
and  leans  over  her  on  the  rock. 
What  art  thou  making  there  ? 

Par.  I?  garlands. 

Ing.  Garlands  ?  — 

\_Musing.']     It  seems  to  me  as  I  before  had  seen  her 
In  a  dream  !     How  !     Ah,  my  brother  !  —  he  who  died 
A  child, — ^yes,  that  is  it.     Mj'  little  Folko,  — 
She  has  his  dark  brown  hair,  his  sparkling  eye : 
Even  the  voice  seems  known  again  to  me : 


612  CHOICE    READINGS. 

I'll  not  to  sleep,  —  I'll  talk  to  her.  —  \_Returns  to  her. 

These  you  call  garlands  ; 

And  wherefore  do  you  weave  them? 

Par,    For  these  cups. 

Ing.    How  ? 

Par.    Is't  not  with  3'ou  a  custom  ?     With  us, 
At  home,  we  love  to  intertwine  with  flowers 
Our  cups  and  goblets. 

Ing.    What  use  is  such  a  plaything? 

Par.   Use  ?     They're  beautiful ;  that  is  their  use  : 
The  sight  of  them  makes  glad  the  eye  ;  their  scent 
Refreshes,  cheers.     [^Fastens  the  half-finished  garland  round 

a  cup,  and  presents  it  to  him 
There  !  is  not  that,  now,  beautiful? 

Ing.    Ay,  b}'  the  bright  Sun  !     That  dark  green  mix'd  up 
With  the  ga}'  flowers  !     Thou  must  teach  our  women 
To  weave  such  garlands. 

Par.  That's  soon  done  :  thy  wife 

Herself  shall  soon  weave  wreaths  as  well  as  I. 

Ing.    [^Laughing heartily .'\     My  wife  !  my  wife!  a  woman 
dost  thou  say  ? 
I  thank  the  gods,  not  I.     This  is  my  wife,  — 

[^Pointirig  to  his  accoutrements 
My  spear,  my  shield,  my  sword :  let  him  who  will 
Waste  cattle,  slaves,  or  gold,  to  buy  a  woman  ; 
Not  I,  not  I ! 

Par.  To  buy  a  woman  ?  —  how  ! 

Ing.    What  is  the  matter  ?  why  dost  look  so  strangely  ? 

Par.   How  !  did  I  hear  aright?  bargain  for  brides, 
As  3"0U  would  slaves,  —  buy  them  like  cattle  ? 

Ing.    Well,  I  think  a  woman  fit  only  for  a  slave. 
We  follow  our  own  customs,  as  you  yours. 
How  do  you  in  your  city  there  ? 

Par.  Consult  our  hearts, 

Massilia's  free-born  daughters  are  not  sold. 
But  bound  by  choice  with  bands  as  light  and  sweet 
As  these  I  hold.     Love  only  buys  us  there. 


INGOMAR,    THE    BARBARIAN.  613 

iTig.    Marry  for  love  :  —  what !  do  you  love  your  husbands  ? 

Par.    Wh}'  marry  else? 

Ing.  Marr}'  for  love  ;  that's  strange  ! 

r  cannot  comprehend.     I  love  my  horse, 
My  dogs,  my  brave  companions,  — but  no  woman ! 
What  dost  thou  mean  by  love  ?  what  is  it,  girl  ? 

Par.    AVhat  is  it  ?     'Tis  of  all  things  the  most  sweet,  — 
The  heaven  of  life,  —  or  so  my  mother  says  ; 
I  never  felt  it. 

Ing.  Never? 

Par.  \_Looking  at  the  garland.']  No,  indeed. 
Now  look  how  beautiful !  Here  would  I  weave 
Red  flowers  if  I  had  them. 

Ing.  Yonder  there, 

In  that  thick  wood,  they  grow. 

Par.  How  sayest  thou  ? 

[Looki7ig  off.]     O,  what  a  lovely  red  !     Go,  pluck  me  some. 

Ing.    [^Starting  at  the  suggestion.]      I  go   for  thee  ?    the 
master  serve  the  slave  ?  — 

\_Gazing  on  her  with  increasing  interest. 
And  yet,  why  not?     I'll  go,  —  the  poor  child's  tired. 

Par.    Dost  hesitate? 

Ing.  No,  thou  shalt  have  the  flowers 

As  fresh  and  dewy  as  the  bush  affords.  \_IIe  goes  off. 

Par.    \_Holding  out  the  wreath.]     I  never  yet  succeeded 
half  so  well. 
It  will  be  charming !     Charming  ?  and  for  whom  ? 
Here  among  savages  !  no  mother  here 
Looks  smiling  on  it,  —  I'm  alone,  forsaken  ! 
But  no,  I'll  weep  no  more  !  no,  none  shall  say  I  fear. 

Re-enter  Ingomar,  with  a  hunch  of  flowers.,  and  slowly  ad- 
vancing towards  Parthenia. 

Ing.    \^Aside.]    The   little   Folko,    when    in    his    play   he 
wanted 
Flowers  or  fruit,  would  so  cry  "  Bring  them  to  me  ; 
Quick  !  I  will  have  them.  —  these  I'll  have  or  none  "  ; 


614  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Till  somehow  he  compell'd  me  to  obej''  him  ; 

And  she,  with  the  same  spirit,  the  same  6re,  — 

Yes,  there  is  much  of  the  bright  child  in  her. 

Well,  she  shall  be  a  little  brother  to  me  !  — 

There  are  the  flowers.  [_He  hands  her  (he  flowers 

Par.    Thanks,  thanks.     O,  thou  hast  broken  them 
Too  short  off  in  the  stem. 

\_She  throws  some  of  them  on  the  groimd. 

Ing.    Shall  I  go  get  thee  more? 

Par.  No,  these  will  do. 

Ing.    Tell  me  about  your  home  :  I  will  sit  here. 
Near  thee. 

Par.  Not  there  :  thou'rt  crushing  all  the  flowers. 

Ing.    [^Seating  himself  at  her  feet.']    Well,  well ;   I'll  sit 
here,  then.     And  now  tell  me, 
What  is  your  name? 

Par.  Parthenia. 

Ing.  Parthenia ! 

A  pretty  name  !  and  now,  Parthenia,  tell  me 
How  that  which  you  call  love  grows  in  the  soul ; 
And  what  love  is :  'tis  strange,  but  in  that  word 
There's  something  seems  like  jonder  ocean  —  fathomless. 

Par.    How  shall  I  say?     Love  comes,  my  mother  says, 
Like  flowers  i'  the  night,  —  reach  me  those  violets  ;  — 
It  is  a  flame  a  single  look  will  kindle. 
But  not  an  ocean  quench. 
Foster'd  by  dreams,  excited  by  each  thought, 
Love  is  a  star  from  heaven,  that  points  the  way 
And  leads  us  to  its  home,  —  a  little  spot 
In  Earth's  dry  desert,  where  the  soul  may  rest; 
A  grain  of  gold  in  the  dull  sand  of  life ; 
A  foretaste  of  El3'sium  :   but  when, 
Weary  of  this  world's  woes,  th'  immortal  gods 
Flew  to  the  skies,  with  all  their  richest  gifts, 
Love  stay'd  behind,  self-exiled  for  man's  sake ! 

Ing.    I  never  yet  heard  aught  so  beautiful ; 
But  still  I  comprehend  it  not. 


INGOMAR,    THE    BARBAKIAN.  615 

Par.  Nor  I, 

For  I  have  never  felt  it ;  yet  I  know 
A  song  my  mother  sang,  an  ancient  song, 
That  plainly  speaks  of  love,  at  least  to  me. 
How  goes  it?  stay — •  \_Slowly,  as  trying  to  recollect. 

What  love  is,  if  thou  wouldst  be  taught, 

Thy  heart  must  teach  alone,  — 
Two  souls  with  but  a  single  thought. 

Two  hearts  that  beat  as  one. 

And  whence  comes  love?  like  morning's  light, 

It  comes  without  thy  call ; 
And  how  dies  love? — A  spirit  bright. 

Love  never  dies  at  all ! 

And  when  —  and  when  — 

[^Hesitating,  as  unable  to  continue. 
Ing.    Go  on. 

Par.  I  know  no  more. 

Ing.    [Imimtienthj.'l  Try,  try. 

Par.    I  cannot  now  ;  but  at  some  other  time 
I  may  remember. 

Ing.    rSomeivhat  authoritatively ."^    Now,  go  on,  I  say. 
Par.    [Springing  up  in  alarm.']    Not  now,  I  want  more 
roses  for  my  wreath ! 
Yonder  they  grow,  I'll  fetch  them  for  myself. 
Take  care  of  all  my  flowers  and  the  wreath. 

[TJiroiiJS  the  jlowers  into  Ingomar's  lap  ayid  r^ins  off. 
Ing.    [After  a  pause,  without  changing  Jiis  position,  sjjeak- 
ing  to  himself  in  deep  abstract  ion. ~\ 

Two  souls  with  but  a  single  thought, 
Two  hearts  that  beat  as  one. 

[The  curtain  falls. 

Act  TV.     Scenk  I. 

Characters  :  Ingomar  and  Parthenia. 
Scene  :    TJie  forest  near  3Iassilia.     Parthenia  is  released 
from   the  Alemanni.,  and  Ingomar  accompanies  her  to  her 


616  CHOICE    READINGS. 

home.     Love  conquers^  and  he  decides  to  go  ivith  her  to  3Ias- 
silia  and  become  a  Greek. 

Ing.    Here,  here,  Parthenia,  this  way,  —  by  this  path. 

Par.    No,  yonder  is  the  wa}-,  —  down  there. 

Ing.    Hold,  hold  !  that  is  to  danger,  —  see  you  not? 
This  way,  — give  me  thy  hand. 

\_They  descend  the  path  on  to  the  stage. 
When  wilt  thou  trust  me? 
Hast  thou  forgotten  yesterday,  the  moor 
Where,  following  thine  own  will,  the  ground  gave  way 
Beneath  th}-  feet,  and,  if  I  had  not  then 
From  off  m}'  arm  thrown  m}'  broad  shield,  whose  face 
Upheld  thy  failing  steps,  — 

Par.  I  should  have  sunk  ! 

Ing.    And  I  with  thee. 

Par.  I  think  thou  wouldst.     Yes,  yes, 

I  was  preserved  from  death,  and  by  thine  arms,  — 
Th}-  shield  lies  i'  the  morass  ;  and  last  night,  too, 
Under  the  bank,  whose  turf  and  moss  afforded 
But  scant}^  firing,  thou  didst  bi'eak  th^^  spear, 
And  with  its  fragments  make  a  cheerful  blaze. 
To  warm  and  comfort  me.     O,  thou  true  guide  ! 

Ing.   Then  come,  —  this  way. 

Par.  It  seems  as  if  that  path  — 

Ing.    Again !    Why,  look,  the  wood  is  ended  here. 
And  the  mountain  grows  more  level. 

Par.    Ah  !  thou  art  right ;  the  forest  spreads  behind  us  : 
It  seems  to  me  I  ought  to  know  this  place. 
Was  it  not  here  that,  when  I  left  m}-  home 
To  seek  my  father,  on  my  knees  I  pra3'd 
The  gods  for  courage,  strength,  and  victor}-? 

hig.    Ah  !  say  not  so.     Far,  far  from  here,  I'd  have 
Thy  home. 

Par.    Yes,  here  it  was. 

\_She  turns  to  the  background  and  recognizes  Massilia. 
Ah!  and  behold,  there  rolls  the  sea; 
And  yonder,  shining  in  the  purple  light, 


INGOMAR,    THE    BARBARIAN.  617 

Appears  Artemis'  temple.  —  O  Massilia, 

My  home,  my  home  !  again  I  throw  m3self  \_Knc('Jiii(i 

Upon  the  earth,  with  thanks,  with  gratitude.  — 

Immortal  gods,  who've  watch'd  my  IougIn'  path, 

The  work  of  love  is  done,  and  safely  back 

You  bring  me  home  again.     O,  thanks  and  praise  ! 

Ing.    \_Aside.']     Would  that  I  lay  beside  my  shield  in  tht 
morass ! 

Par.    [^Rising  and  coming  forward,  accompanied  by  Ingo 
MAR.]    My  father,  mother,  I  shall  see  them  again  ; 
Weeping  with  joy  shall  sink  into  their  arms, 
And  kiss  the  falling  tears  from  their  pale  cheeks. 

0,  be  saluted  by  me,  my  native  city  ! 

See  how  the  evening  light  plays  on  each  column, 
Each  wall,  and  tower,  like  the  smile  of  a  god. 
Look,  Ingomar,  is  it  not  glorious  ? 
What  ails  thee?  why  art  thou  now  grown  sulky, 
Like  a  vex'd  child,  when  joy  lends  my  soul  wings? 
Didst  thou  endure  with  me  the  burning  sun, 
The  frost  of  night,  and  the  rough  path,  and  now 
Wilt  not  rejoice,  —  now  that  our  toil  is  over? 

Ing.    I  —  I  rejoice  ? 
In  the  dark  forest,  the  bleak  wilderness, 
Alone  with  thee,  the  heavens  above,  around  us 
Loneliness  and  deep  silence,  there,  — yes,  there. 
Where  fear  and  danger  press'd  thee  to  m}-  aid, 
Did  I  rejoice  ;  I  was  thy  world  :  but  here. 
Where  these  accursed  walls  cast  their  cold  shades. 
To  tear  our  souls  asunder,  —  here  — 

Par.  Ah  me  ! 

Yes,  I  remember,  —  here  we  part.     And  yet 
Not  here  ;  come  with  me  to  the  city. 

Ing.  I  ? 

Yonder,  with  polished  Greeks,  caged  in  dark  walls? 

1,  the  barbarian,  the  free  man?     No,  yonder 
Thy  pathway  lies,  —  this  to  my  mountain  home. 
O,  would  that  I  had  never  seen  thee,  girl ! 


618  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Enough  :  farewell,  farewell !  [^Rushes  out. 

Par.    Ingomar  !  stay,  hear  me  !  —  He  heeds  me  not ; 
He  flies  up  the  steep  cliff ;  he's  gone,  and  I 
Shall  never  see  him  more  !     Why,  how  is  this? 
What  sudden  change  has  come  upon  the  world? 
How  green,  how  bright,  was  all  before  !  and  now 
How  dim  and  dark  the  twilight  grows  !     How  faded 
The  grass,  how  dry  the  leaves  !     It  seems  to  me 
As  if  the  young  Spring  were  about  to  die. 
What !  tears  ?     I  must  not  weep  ;  no,  no,  I  must  not. 
Rouse  thee,  Parthenia,  thou  hast  duties.     Think, 
Thy  home  awaits  thee,  —  parents,  friends,  companions. 
O,  Ingomar  !  whom  shall  I  find  there  like  to  thee? 
Thou  good,  thou  generous  one  !     Lost  —  lost !  [  Weeps. 

Ingomar  re-enters  and  slowly  approaches. 

Ing.    Parthenia ! 

Par.  Ah!  come  back  again? 

Ing.    I  am:  I  cannot,  will  not  leave  thee. 
I  will  go  with  thee  to  the  city  ;  I  — 
I  will  become  a  Greek  ! 

Par.  How  sayest  thou? 

Ing.    Thou  dost  not  despise  me,  Parthenia  ;  no, 
Thou'rt  not  ashamed  of  me,  but  only  of 
My  nation,  my  rough  ways  :  there's  remedy 
For  that,  —  it  can  be  mended.     Though  I  am 
No  Greek,  yet  I'm  a  man,  for  'tis  the  soul 
That  makes  the  man,  and  not  his  outward  seeming : 
M}'  shield  and  spear  are  left  in  the  morass. 
So  will  1  leave  m}-  nation,  manners,  all, 
To  follow  thee.     In  yonder  town,  for  thee 
I  will  become  a  Greek.     And,  now  I've  said  it, 
I'm  strong  and  well  again. 

Par.  Thou'lt  follow  me  ? 

Ing.    I  know  I've  much  to  learn,  but  thou  wilt  teach  me, 
And  that  will  make  all  easy.     When  'tis  done, 
Thou'lt  love  me  then  !  thou  wilt,  —  I  feel  it  here ; 


LEAH,    THE    FORSAKEN-  619 

Ay,  like  a  sunbeam  in  my  heart  it  glows  ; 

It  shouts  like  the  loud  triumph  of  a  conqueror ; 

Like  the  voice  of  the  high  gods,  it  penetrates 

Mv  soul :  thou'lt  love  me  then  !  thou'lt  love  me  then  ! 

Par.    [^Aside.'\    If  not,  O  Heaven  !  whom  can  I  ever  love  ! 
Thou'lt  follow  me  to  Massilia.  \_Exit. 

LEAH,  THE  FOESAKEN. 

AuGusTiN  Daly. 


Act  IV.     Scene  II. 

Characters  :  Leah,  a  Jewish  maiden  and  a  fugitive  to 
Bohemia  during  a  persecution  of  her  race.  Rudolf,  the  son 
of  an  old  Christian  magistrate.,  falls  in  love  ivith  Leah,  but  is 
shortly  after  persuaded  that  she  has  accepted  a  sum  of  money 
to  discard  him.  While  labouring  under  this  impression,  he  is 
induced  by  his  parents  to  marry  Madalina,  the  niece  o/Father 
Herman,  the  village  priest.  Tlie  marriage  ceremony  has  just 
been  solemnized  in  the  church  ivhen  Leah  ivanders  into  the 
church-yard. 

Scene  :  Night.  The  churchyard  behind  an  Austrian  vil- 
lage church.  Tombstones  and  graves  about;  at  back,  the  side 
of  the  church,  showing  its  stained-glass  windoios,  and  a  little 
sacristy  door  leading  from  it  to  yard  ;  among  the  gravestones,  a 
little  to  the  left  of  centre  of  stage,  is  a  Jialf-broJien  ivhite  column. 

Enter  Leah,  slowly,  her  hair  streaming  over  her  shoulders. 

Leah.  \^Sola.^  What  seek  I  here?  I  know  not;  yet  I 
feel  I  have  a  mission  to  fulfil.  I  feel  that  the  cords  of  my 
soul  are  stretched  to  their  utmost  effort.  Already  seven 
days  !  So  long  !  As  the  dead  lights  were  placed  about  the 
body  of  Abraham,  as  the  friends  sat  nightl}'  at  his  feet  and 
watched,  [Slowly  sinking  dozen.']  so  have  I  sat  for  seven  days, 
and  wept  over  the  corpse  of  my  love  !  [  With  2K(inful  intensity. ^ 


620  CHOICE    READINGS. 

What  have  I  done  ?  Am  I  not  a  child  of  man  ?  Is  not  love 
the  right  of  all,  like  the  air,  the  light  ?  And,  if  I  stretched 
my  hands  towards  it,  was  it  a  crime?  When  I  first  saw  him, 
first  heard  the  sound  of  his  voice,  something  wound  itself 
around  my  heart.  Then  first  I  knew  why  I  was  created,  and 
for  the  first  time  was  thankful  for  my  life.  [Laying  her  hand 
on  her  broiv.']  Collect  thyself,  mind,  and  think !  What  has 
happened?  I  saw  him  yesterday,  —  no  !  eight  days  ago  !  He 
was  full  of  love  :  "  You'll  come,"  said  he.  I  came.  I  left 
my  people.  I  tore  the  cords  that  bound  me  to  my  nation, 
and  came  to  him.  He  cast  me  forth  into  the  night.  And 
yet,  my  heart,  you  throb  still.  The  Earth  still  stands,  the 
Sun  still  shines,  as  if  it  had  not  gone  down  for  ever  for  me. 
^Lo^v.~\  By  his  side  stood  a  handsome  maiden,  and  drew  him 
away  with  caressing  hands.  It  is  her  he  loves,  and  to  the 
Jewess  he  dares  offer  gold.  \_Starting  vp.']  I  will  seek  him  ! 
I  will  gaze  on  his  face,  —  [Church  lit  u}y,u- indoivs  illumiyiated, 
organ  heard  soft.']  that  deceitful,  beautiful  face.  I  will  ask 
him  what  I  have  done,  that  —  [Hides  her  head  in  her  hands 
and  iveeps  ;  organ  swells  louder,  and  then  subsides  again  to  low 
music.']  Perhaps  he  has  been  misled  by  some  one,  —  some 
false  tongue  !  His  looks,  his  words  seem  to  reproach  me. 
Why  was  I  silent?  Thou  proud  mouth,  ye  proud  lips,  why 
did  you  not  speak  ?  [Exultinglg.']  Perhaps  he  loves  me  still . 
Perhaps  his  soul,  like  mine,  pines  in  nameless  agony,  and 
yearns  for  reconciliation.  [Music  soft.']  Why  does  my  hate 
melt  away  at  this  soft  voice  with  which  Heaven  calls  to  me  ? 
That  grand  music.  [Listening.]  I  hear  voices  ;  it  sounds  like 
a  nuptial  benediction;  perhaps  it  is  a  loving  bridal  pair. 
[Clasping  her  hands,  and  raising  them,  on  high.]  Amen  — 
amen !  to  that  benediction,  whoever  you  may  be.  [Music 
stops.]  I,  poor  desolate  one,  would  like  to  see  their  happy 
faces ;  I  must  —  this  window.  Yes,  here  I  can  see  into 
the  church.  [Goes  to  window,  looks  in,  screams,  and  comes 
down;  speaks  very  fast.]  Do  I  dream?  Kind  Heaven,  that 
prayer,  that  amen,  you  heard  it  not.  I  call  it  back.  You 
did  not  hear  my  blessing.     You  were  deaf.     Did  no  blood- 


LEAH,    THE    FORSAKEN.  621 

stained  dagger  drop  down  upon  them  ?  'Tis  he  !  Revenge  ! 
[^Thrrnvs  off  her  mantle,  disclosing  lohite  robe  beneath;  bares 
her  arm,  and  rushes  to  the  little  door,  but  halts."]  No  !  Thou 
shalt  judge  !  Thine,  Jehovah,  is  the  vengeance.  Thou  alone 
canst  send  it.  [_S lands  beside  broken  column,  rests  her  left 
arm  upon  it,  letting  the  other  fall  by  her  side. 

Enter  Rudolf /rom  the  little  door  of  church,  with  rose  ivreath 
in  his  hand. 

Hud,  I  am  at  last  alone.  I  cannot  endure  the  joy  and 
merriment  around  me.  How  like  mockery  sounded  the  pious 
words  of  the  priest.  As  I  gazed  towards  the  church  windows, 
I  saw  a  face,  heard  a  muffled  cry.  I  thoilght  it  was  her  face, 
her  voice. 

Leah.    \_Coldly.']    Did  you  think  so? 

Rud.    Leah  !  is  it  you  ? 

Leah.    Yes. 

Rud.    [^Tenderly.']   Leah  — 

Leah.  [  With  a  gesture  of  contempt."]  Silence,  perjured 
one  !  Can  the  tongue  that  lied  still  speak  ?  The  breath  that 
called  me  wife  now  swear  faith  to  another?  Does  it  dare 
to  mix  with  the  pure  air  of  heaven  ?  Is  this  the  man  I  wor- 
shipped ?  whose  features  I  so  fondly  gazed  upon  ?  Ah ! 
\_Shuddering .]  No — no  !  The  hand  of  Heaven  has  crushed, 
beaten,  and  defaced  them  !  The  stamp  of  divinity  no  longer 
rests  there  !  [  Walks  aivay. 

Rud.    Leah  !  hear  me  ! 

Leah.  \_Turning fiercely.]  Ha !  You  call  me  back  !  I  am 
pitiless  now. 

Rud.    You  broke  faith  first.     You  took  the  money. 

Leah.    Money!     What  money? 

Rud.    The  money  ray  father  sent  you. 

Leah.    Sent  me  money  !     For  what? 

Rud.    [^Hesitating.]    To  induce  you  to  release  me — to  — 

Leah.  That  I  might  release  you.  And  you  knew  it.  You 
permitted  it? 

Rud.    I  staked  my  life  that  you  would  not  take  it. 


622  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Leah,    And  you  believed  I  had  taken  it? 

Rud.    How  could  I  believe  otherwise  ?     I — 

Leah.  [^With  rage.']  And  3'ou  believed  I  had  taken  it? 
Miserable  Christian,  and  you  cast  me  off !  Not  a  questiou 
was  the  Jewess  worth.  [^Suhdued.,  h%it  vindictive.']  This,  then, 
was  thy  work  :  this  the  eternity  of  love  which  you  promised 
me.  [^Falling  on  her  knees.]  Forgive  me.  Heaven,  that  I  for- 
got my  nation  to  love  this  Christian.  Let  that  love  be  lost 
in  hate.     Love  is  false,  unjust ;  hate  endless,  eternal. 

Rud.  Cease  these  gloomy  words  of  vengeance, — I  have 
wronged  you.  I  feel  it  without  your  reproaches.  I  have 
sinned,  but  to  sin  is  human,  and  it  would  be  but  human  to 
forgive. 

Leah.  You  would  tempt  me  again?  I  do  not  know  that 
voice. 

Rud.  I  will  make  good  the  evil  I  have  done ;  ay,  an 
hundredfold. 

Leah.  \_Bitterly .]  Ay,  crush  the  flower,  grind  it  under 
foot,  then  make  good  the  evil  you  have  done.  \_Fiercely.] 
No,  no !  An  eye  for  an  eye,  a  tooth  for  a  tooth,  a  heart  for 
a  heart. 

Rud.  Hold,  fierce  woman,  1  will  beseech  no  more  !  Do 
not  tempt  Heaven  ;  let  it  be  the  judge  between  us  !  If  I  have 
sinned  through  love,  see  that  you  do  not  sin  through  hate. 

Leah.  Blasphemer  !  and  3'ou  dare  call  on  Heaven  !  What 
commandment  hast  thou  not  broken  ?  Thou  shalt  not  swear 
falsel}-,  —  you  broke  faith  with  me  !  Thou  shalt  not  steal,  — 
you  stole  my  heart.  Thou  shalt  not  kill,  — what  of  life  have 
you  left  me? 

Rud.    \_Advances  toivards  her.]    Hold,  hold  !     No  more. 

Leah.  \_RepelUng  him.]  The  old  man  who  died  because  I 
loved  3'ou  ;  the  woman  who  hungered  because  I  followed  3'ou  ; 
the  infant  who  died  of  thirst  because  of  you  ;  may  they  follow 
you  in  dreams,  and  be  a  drag  upon  your  feet  forever !  Maj' 
you  wander  as  I  wander,  suffer  shame  as  I  now  suffer  it ! 
Cursed  be  the  land  you  till ;  may  it  keep  faith  with  30U,  as 
you  kept  faith  with  me  !     Cursed  be  the  unborn  fruit  of  thy 


MAUY   STUART.  623 

marriage !  ma}'  it  wither  as  my  3'oung  lieart  has  withered  ! 
and,  should  it  ever  see  the  light,  may  its  brows  be  blackened 
by  the  mark  of  Cain,  and  may  it  vainly  pant  for  nourishment 
on  its  dying  mother's  breast !  {^Snatclnng  the  wreath  from  his 
uplifted  hand.']  Cursed,  thrice  cursed  may  you  be  evermore  ! 
and  as  ray  people  on  Mount  Ebal  spoke,  so  speak  I  thrice. 
Amen  !     Amen  !     Amen  ! 

[Rudolf,  who  has  been  standing  as  if  petrified,  drops  on  his 
knees,  as  the  curtain  descends  on  the  tableau. 


MARY   STUAET. 

Schiller:   Translated  iy  ]o?,E.fH  Mellish. 


Act  III.  Scene  IV. 
Characters  :  Elizabeth  of  England,  Mary  of  Scotland, 
the  Earls  of  Leicester  and  Shrewsbury,  and  Hannah 
Kennedy,  Mary's  nurse.  Mary,  having  abdicated  her 
throne,  and  after  an  unsuccessful  cdtempt  to  retrieve  her  for- 
tunes, crossed  over  into  England,  threw  herself  on  the  protec- 
tion of  Elizabeth,  but  icas  there  made  a  prisoner  for  life, 
icas  removed  from  prison  to  prison,  teas  at  last  tried  on  a 
charge  of  conspiracy  against  the  life  of  Elizabeth,  and  sen- 
tenced to  death.  In  the  Jiojye  of  arresting  the  execution  of  that 
sentence,  Mary  solicited,  and  at  length  obtained,  the  privilege 
of  an  intervieio  with  Elizabeth.  This  took  place  at  the  Cas- 
tle of  Fotheringay,  in  1586.  Tlie  scene  opens  just  on  the 
arrival  of  Elizabeth  and  her  retimie  at  the  castle. 

Eliza.    What  seat  is  that,  my  Lord? 
Leices.  'Tis  Fotheringay. 

Eliza.    \_To  Shrews.]     My  Lord,  send  back  our  retinue 
to  London : 
The  people  crowd  too  eager  in  the  roads ; 
We'll  seek  a  refuge  in  this  quiet  park. 

[Shrews,  sends  the  train  away 


624  CHOICE   READINGS. 

My  honest  people  love  me  overmuch  : 

Thus  should  a  God  be  houour'd,  not  a  mortal. 

Mary.  [  Who  the  whole  time  had  leaned  on  Kennedy,  rises 
now^  and  her  eyes  meet  those  of  Eliza,]  O  God! 
from  out  these  features  speaks  no  heart. 

Eliza.    What  lady's  that?  [A  gener-al  silence. 

Leices.  You  are  at  Fotheringay, 

My  Liege ! 

Eliza.  [_As  if  surprised."]  "Who  hath  done  this,  my  Lord 
of  Leicester? 

Leices.    'Tis  past,  my  Queen  :  and,  now  that  Heaven  hath 
led 
Your  footsteps  hither,  be  magnanimous, 
And  let  sweet  pity  be  triumphant  now. 

Shreivs.    O  royal  mistress  !  yield  to  our  entreaties : 
O,  cast  your  eyes  on  this  unhappy  one, 
Who  stands  dissolved  in  anguish. 

[Maky   collects  herself^    and   begins    to    advance   totvards 
Eliza.  ;  stops  shuddering  at  half  way. 

Eliza.  How,  my  Lords  ! 

Which  of  you  then  announced  to  me  a  prisoner 
Bow'd  down  by  woe?     I  see  a  haughty  one, 
By  no  means  humbled  by  calamity. 

Mary.    Well,  be  it  so :  to  this  will  I  submit.  — 
Farewell  high  thought,  and  pride  of  noble  mind ! 
I  will  forget  my  dignity,  and  all 
My  sufferings ;  I  will  fall  before  her  feet, 
Who  hath  reduced  me  to  this  wretchedness.  — 
The  voice  of  Heaven  decides  for  you,  my  sister. 
Your  happy  brows  are  now  with  triumph  crown'd  ; 
I  bless  the  Power  Divine  which  thus  hath  raised  you : 
[^Kneeling.']     But  in  your  turn  be  merciful,  my  sister , 
Let  me  not  lie  before  you  thus  disgraced  : 
Stretch  forth  your  hand,  your  royal  hand,  to  raise 
Your  sister  from  the  depths  of  her  distress. 

Eliza.    You  are  where  it  becomes  you,  Lady  Stuart^ 
And  thankfully  I  prize  my  God's  protection, 


MAKY    STUAKT.  625 

Who  hath  not  suffered  me  to  kneel  a  suppliant 
Thus  at  your  feet,  as  ^-ou  now  kneel  at  mine. 

Mary.    Think  on  all  earthl}'  things,  vicissitudes. 
O  !  there  are  gods  who  punish  haughty  pride  : 
Respect  them,  honour  them,  the  dreadful  ones 
Who  thus  before  thy  feet  have  humbled  me  ! 
Before  these  strangers'  eyes,  dishonour  not 
Yourself  in  me  :  profane  not,  nor  disgrace 
The  royal  blood  of  Tudor.     In  my  veins 
It  flows  as  pure  a  stream  as  in  your  own. 

0  !  for  God's  pity,  stand  not  so  estranged 
And  inaccessible,  like  some  tall  cliff. 
Which  the  poor  shipwreck'd  mariner  in  vain 
Struggles  to  seize,  and  labours  to  embrace. 

Eliza.    What  would  you  sa}-  to  mc,  my  Lad}'  Stuart  i 
You  wish'd  to  speak  with  me  ;  and  I,  forgetting 
The  Queen,  and  all  the  wrongs  I  have  sustain'd, 
Fulfil  the  pious  duty  of  the  sister, 
And  grant  the  boon  you  wish'd  for  of  my  presence. 
Yet  I,  in  yielding  to  the  generous  feelings 
Of  magnanimity,  expose  myself 
To  rightful  censure,  that  I  stoop  so  low : 
For  well  you  know,  you  would  have  had  me  murder'd 

Mary.   O  !  how  shall  I  begin?     O,  how  shall  I 
So  artfully  arrange  my  cautious  words, 
That  they  may  touch,  3et  not  offend  your  heart? 

1  am  a  Queen,  like  3'ou,  yet  you  have  held  me 
Confined  in  prison.     As  a  suppliant 

I  came  to  3'ou,  yet  you  in  me  insulted 
The  pious  use  of  hospitality  ; 
Slighting  in  me  the  holy  law  of  nations, 
Immured  me  in  a  dungeon,  tore  from  me 
My  friends  and  servants  ;  to  unseemly  want 
I  was  exposed,  and  hurried  to  the  bar 
Of  a  disgraceful,  insolent  tribunal. 
No  more  of  this  :  in  everlasting  silence 
Be  buried  all  the  cruelties  I  suffer'd ! 


626  CHOICE   READINGS. 

See,  I  will  throw  the  blame  of  all  on  fate ; 
'Twas  not  your  fault,  no  more  than  it  was  mine : 
An  evil  spirit  rose  from  the  abyss. 
To  kindle  in  our  hearts  the  flames  of  hate. 
By  which  our  tender  youth  had  been  divided : 
It  grew  with  us,  and  bad,  designing  men 
Fanu'd  with  their  ready  breath  the  fatal  fire. 
Now  stand  we  face  to  face :  now,  sister,  speak ; 
Name  but  my  crime,  I'll  fully  satisfy  j^ou : 
Alas !  had  you  vouchsafed  to  hear  me  then, 
When  I  so  earnest  sought  to  meet  your  eye, 
It  never  would  have  come  to  this,  nor  would. 
Here  in  this  mournful  place,  have  happen'd  now 
This  so  distressful,  this  so  mournful  meeting. 

Eliza.    My  better  stars  preserved  me.     I  was  warn'd, 

And  laid  not  to  my  breast  the  poisonous  adder ! 

Accuse  not  fate  !  your  own  deceitful  heart 

It  was,  the  wild  ambition  of  your  House. 

But  God  is  with  me,  and  the  haughty  foe 

Has  not  maiutain'd  the  field.     The  blow  was  aim'd 

Full  at  my  head,  but  yours  it  is  which  falls  ! 

Mary.    I'm  in  the  hand  of  Heaven.     You  never  will 

Exert  so  cruelly  the  power  it  gives  you. 

Eliza.    Who  shall  prevent  me  ?     Sa}^  did  not  your  uncle 

Set  all  the  Kings  of  Europe  the  example, 

How  to  conclude  a  peace  with  those  they  hate  ? 

Force  is  m}^  only  surety  ;  no  alliance 

Can  be  concluded  with  a  race  of  vipers. 

Mary.    O,  this  is  but  your  wretched,  dark  suspicion  ! 

For  you  have  constantly  regarded  me 

But  as  a  stranger,  and  an  enem}'. 

Had  you  declared  me  heir  to  ^our  dominions, 

As  is  my  right,  then  gratitude  and  love 

In  me  had  fix'd,  for  you,  a  faithful  friend 

And  kinswoman. 

Eliza.  Your  friendship  is  abroad. 

J^'ame  you  my  successor  !     The  treacherous  snare  J 


MARY    STUART.  627 

That  in  my  life  you  might  seduce  my  people ; 
And,  like  a  sl^'  Armida,  in  ^^our  net 
Entangle  all  our  noble  English  youth ; 
That  all  might  turn  to  the  new  rising  Sun, 
Andl  — 

Mary.    O  sister,  rule  your  realm  in  peace : 
I  give  up  every  claim  to  these  domains : 
Alas  !   the  pinions  of  my  soul  are  lamed  ; 
Greatness  entices  me  no  more :  your  point 
Is  gain'd  ;  I  am  but  Mary's  shadow  now  ; 
My  noble  spirit  is  at  last  broke  down 
By  long  captivity  :  you've  done  j-our  worst 
On  me  ;  you  have  destroy'd  me  in  my  bloom  ! 
Now  end  your  work,  xwy  sister ;  speak  at  length 
Tiie  word,  which  to  pronounce  has  brought  you  hither ; 
For  I  will  ne'er  believe  that  you  are  come 
To  mock  unfeelingly  your  hapless  victim. 
Pronounce  this  word;  sa}-,  "  Mary,  you  are  free: 
You  have  already  felt  my  power ;  learn  now 
To  honour  too  my  generosity." 
8av  this,  and  I  will  take  my  life,  will  take 
My  freedom,  as  a  present  from  your  hands. 
One  word  makes  all  undone ;  I  wait  for  it : 
O,  let  it  not  be  needlessly  delay 'd : 
Woe  to  you,  if  you  end  not  with  this  word ! 
For,  should  you  not,  like  some  divinity 
Dispensing  noble  blessings,  quit  me  now. 
Then,  sister,  not  for  all  this  island's  wealth, 
For  all  the  realms  encircled  by  the  deep. 
Would  I  exchange  my  present  lot  for  3'ours. 

Eliza.    And  3'ou  confess  at  last,  that  3'ou  are  conquer'd 
Are  all  your  schemes  run  out?  no  more  assassins 
Now  on  the  road?  will  no  adventurer 
Attempt  again,  for  you,  the  sad  achievement? 
Yes,  madam,  it  is  over  :  you'll  seduce 
No  mortal  more.     The  world  has  other  cares  ; 


628  CHOICE   READINGS. 

None  is  ambitious  of  the  dangerous  honour 
Of  being  your  fourth  husband :  you  destroy 
Your  wooers  like  your  husbands. 

Mary.  Sister,  sister  !  — 

Grant  me  forbearance,  all  ye  powers  of  Heaven ! 

Eliza.   Those  then,  my  Lord  of  Leicester,  are  the  charms 
Which  no  man  with  impunity  can  view. 
Near  which  no  woman  dare  attempt  to  stand? 
In  sooth,  this  honour  has  been  clieaply  gain'd ; 
She  who  to  all  is  common  may  with  ease 
Become  the  common  object  of  applause. 

Mary.   This  is  too  much ! 

Eliza.  You  show  us  now,  indeed. 

Your  real  face  ;  till  now  'twas  but  the  mask. 

Mary.   My  sins  were  human,  and  the  faults  of  youth ; 
Superior  force  misled  me.     I  have  never 
Denied  or  sought  to  hide  it :  I  despised 
All  false  appearance  as  became  a  Queen : 
The  worst  of  me  is  known,  and  I  can  say 
That  I  am  better  than  the  fame  I  bear. 
"Woe  to  you  !  when,  in  time  to  come,  the  world 
Shall  draw  the  robe  of  honour  from  your  deeds. 
Virtue  was  not  your  portion  from  your  mother ; 
Well  know  we  what  it  was  which  brought  the  head 
Of  Anna  Boleyn  to  the  fatal  block. 

Shrevjs.    \_Stepping  between  them."]    0  Heaven  !    Alas,  and 
must  it  come  to  this  ? 
Is  this  the  moderation,  the  submission, 
My  Lady?  — 

Mary.  Moderation  !     I've  supported 

What  human  nature  can  support :  farewell, 
Lamb-hearted  resignation  !  passive  patience. 
Fly  to  thy  native  Heaven  !  burst  at  length 
Thy  bonds,  come  forward  from  thy  dreary  cave, 
In  all  thy  fury,  long-suppressed  rancour ! 
And  thou,  who  to  the  anger'd  basilisk 


MARY   STUART.  629 

Impart'st  the  murderous  glauce,  O,  arm  mj-  tongue 
With  poison'd  darts  ! 

Shre2vs.  She  is  beside  herself! 

Exasperated,  mad  !     My  Liege,  forgive  her. 

Leices.    Attend  not  to  her  rage  !     Away,  away, 
From  this  disastrous  place  ! 

Mary.  A  bastard  soils. 

Profanes  the  English  throne  !     The  generous  Britons 
Are  cheated  by  a  juggler,  whose  whole  figure 
Is  false  and  painted,  heart  as  well  as  face ! 
If  right  prevail'd,  you  now  would  in  the  dust 
Before  me  lie,  for  I'm  your  rightful  monarch ! 

[Eliza,  hastily  quits  the  stage;   the  Lords  folloio  her  in 

great  consternation. 

Ken.    What  have  you  done  'i    She  has  gone  hence  in  wrath. 
All  hope  is  over  now  ! 

3Iary.  Gone  hence  in  wrath  ! 

She  carries  death  within  her  heart !  I  know  it. 

[Falling  on  Kennedy's  bosom 
Now  I  am  happy,  Hannah  !  and  at  last. 
After  whole  years  of  sorrow  and  abasement. 
One  moment  of  victorious  revenge  ! 
A  weight  falls  off  my  heart,  a  weight  of  mountains ; 
I  plunged  the  steel  in  my  oppressor's  breast ! 

Ken.    Unhappy  Lady  !  frenzy  overcomes  30U  : 
Yes,  you  have  wounded  ^-our  inveterate  foe  ; 
'Tis  she  who  wields  the  lightning,  she  is  Queen ; 
You  have  insulted  her  before  her  minion. 

Mary.    I  have  abased  her  before  Leicester's  eyes ; 
He  saw  it,  he  was  witness  of  my  triumph. 
How  did  I  hurl  her  from  her  haughty  height. 
He  saw  it,  and  his  presence  strengthen'd  me. 


830  CHOICE   READINGS. 

EIOHELIEU;    OE,  THE  OONSPIEAOY. 

Lord  Bulwer-Lyttok 


Act  rv.     Scene  I. 

Characters:  Louis  XIII.,  King  of  France;  Cardinal 
Richelieu,  Minister  of  France;  Julie  de  Mortimer,  an 
orphayi  ward  to  Richelieu,  and  afterwards  ivife  of  Adrian 
de  Mauprat  ;  Joseph,  a  Capucldn  Monk,  and  Richelieu's 
confidant;  Clermont,  a  courtier,  and  Baradas,  the  King's 
favourite.  Julie,  through  the  aid  of  the  Queen,  having 
escaped  the  clutches  of  Louis  XIIL,  fies  to  the  castle  oj 
Cardinal  Richelieu,  and  seeJcs  protection  of  him.  She 
also  implores  Richelieu  to  j^rotect  her  husband,  who  had  been 
seized  and  made  prisoner  by  Baradas.  The  King  sends 
Clermont  to  conduct  Julie  into  his  presence,  but  Richelieu 
refuses  to  give  her  up.  He  then  sends  Baradas  to  demaiid 
her  presence ;  but  Richelieu,  in  his  hour  of  political  helpless- 
ness, throws  around  his  ward  the  holy  protection  of  the 
Church,  and  defies  the  power  of  the  King. 

Julie.    \_To  Richelieu.]      I  ask  thee  for  my  home,  my 
fate,  my  all ! 
Where  is  my  husband? 

Rich.  You  are  Richelieu's  ward, 

A  soldier's  bride ;  they  who  insist  on  truth 
Must  out- face  fear :  you  ask  me  for  your  husband  ? 
There,  where  the  clouds  of  heaven  look  darkest  o'er 
The  domes  of  the  Bastile  ! 

Julie.  O,  mercy,  mercy  ! 

Save  him,  restore  him,  father !     Art  thou  not 
The  Cardinal  King?  the  Lord  of  life  and  death, 
Art  thou  not  Richelieu  ? 

Rich.  Yesterday  I  was  ; 

To-day  a  very  weak  old  man  ;  to-morrow, 
I  know  not  what. 


RICHELIEU.  631 

Julie.    [_To  Joseph.]     Do  you  conceive  his  meaning? 
Alas  I  cannot. 

Jos.  The  King  is  chafed 

Against  his  servant.     Lady,  while  we  speak, 
The  lacquey  of  the  ante-room  is  not 
More  powerless  than  the  Minister  of  France. 

Enter  Clermont. 

Cler.    Madame  de  Mauprat !  — 
Pardon,  ^our  Eminence ;  even  now  I  seek 
This  lady's  home,  —  commanded  by  the  King 
To  pray  her  presence. 

Julie.    \_Clingmg  to  Rich.]     Think  of  ni}-  dead  father, 
And  take  me  to  your  breast. 

Rich.  To  those  who  sent  3'OU ! 

And  say  you  found  the  virtue  they  would  slay 
Here,  couch'd  upon  this  heart,  as  at  an  altar, 
And  shelter'd  by  the  wings  of  sacred  Rome  ! 
Be  gone ! 

Cler.      My  Lord,  I  am  your  friend  and  servant, 
Misjudge  me  not ;  but  never  yet  was  Louis 
So  roused  against  you :  shall  I  take  this  answer? 
It  were  to  be  your  foe. 

Rich.  All  time  my  foe, 

If  I,  a  priest,  could  cast  this  holy  soitow 
Forth  from  her  last  asylum ! 

Cler.  He  is  lost !       \_Exit  Clerjiont. 

Rich.    God   help   thee,    child  !  —  She   hears   not !      Looi 
upon  her ! 
The  storm,  that  rends  the  oak,  uproots  the  flower. 
Her  father  loved  me  so  !  and  in  that  age 
When  friends  are  brothers  !     She  has  been  to  me 
Soother,  nurse,  plaything,  daughter.     Are  these  tears? 
O,  shame,  shame  !  dotage  !     [^Place  s  her  in  the  arms  of  J  osJtPB 

Jos.  Tears  are  not  for  eyes 

That  rather  need  the  lightning  !  which  can  pierce 
Through  barred  gates  and  triple  walls,  to  smite 


632  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Crime,  where  it  cowers  in  secret !     The  dispatch  I 
Set  every  spy  to  work  ;  the  morrow's  Sun 
Must  see  that  written  treason  in  your  hands, 
Or  rise  upon  your  ruin. 

Rich.  Ay,  and  close 

Upon  my  corpse  ;  I  am  not  made  to  live : 
Friends,  glory,  France,  all  reft  from  me ;  my  star, 
Like  some  vain  holiday  mimicry  of  fire. 
Piercing  imperial  heaven,  and  falling  down 
Rayless  and  blacken'd,  to  the  dust,  —  a  thing 
For  all  men's  feet  to  trample  !     Yea,  to-morrow 
Triumph  or  death !  —  Look  up,  child  !  —  Lead  us,  Joseph  ! 

As  they  are  going  vp,  enter  Baradas. 

Bar.   My  Lord,  the  King  cannot  believe  3'our  Eminence 
So  far  forgets  your  duty,  and  his  greatness. 
As  to  resist  his  mandate.  — Pray  you,  madam. 
Obey  the  King  ;  no  cause  for  fear. 

Julie.  My  father  ! 

Rich.    She  shall  not  stir ! 

Bar.  You  are  not  of  her  kindred  ; 

An  orphan  — 

Rich.  And  her  country  is  her  mother. 

Bar.   The  country  is  the  King. 

Rich.  Ay,  is  it  so? 

Then  wakes  the  power  which  in  the  age  of  iron 
Bursts  forth  to  curb  the  great,  and  raise  the  low. 
Mark,  where  she  stands  :  around  her  form  I  draw 
The  awful  circle  of  our  solemn  Church  ! 
Set  but  a  foot  within  that  hoi}'  ground. 
And  on  thy  head  —  yea,  though  it  wore  a  crown  — 
I  launch  the  curse  of  Rome  ! 

Bar.  I  dare  not  brave  you ; 

I  do  but  speak  the  orders  of  my  King : 
The  Church,  your  rank,  power,  very  word,  my  Lord. 
Suffice  you  for  resistance  ;  blame  ^'ourself, 
If  it  should  cost  your  power. 


RICHELIEU.  633 

Rich,  That's  m?/ stake.     Ah! 

Dark  gamester!  lohat  is  thine?     Look  to  it  well,  — 
Lose  not  a  trick.     By  this  same  hour  to-morrow 
Thou  shalt  have  France,  or  I  thy  head  ! 

Bar.    \^Aside.']  He  cannot 

Have  the  dispatch  ! 

Jos.    {_Aside,  to  Richelieu.]     Patience  is  j-our  game  ; 
Reflect,  you  have  not  the  dispatch  ! 

Rich.  O  monk  I 

Leave  patience  to  the  saints,  for  /  am  human  !  — 
[_To  Julie.]     Did  not  thy  father  die  for  France,  poor  orphan? 
And  now  they  say  thou  hast  no  father !     Fie  ! 
Art  thou  not  pure  and  good  ?  if  so,  thou  art 
A  part  of  that  —  the  Beautiful,  the  sacred  — 
^Yhich,  in  all  climes,  men  that  have  hearts  adore, 
By  the  great  title  of  their  mother  country  ! 

Bar.    l^Aside.']     He  wanders  ! 

Rich.  So,  cling  close  unto  my  breast : 

Here  where  thou  droop'st  lies  France  1     I'm  very  feeble,  — 
Of  little  use  it  seems  to  either  now. 
Well,  well,  we  will  go  home.      [^Tliey  go  up  the  stage."] 

Bar.  In  sooth,  my  Lord, 

You  do  need  rest ;  the  burdens  of  the  State 
O'ertask  your  health. 

Rich.    [To  Joseph;  pauses.'\     I'm  patient,  see! 

Bar.    [Aside."]  His  mind 

And  life  are  breaking  fast. 

Rich.    [Overhearing  him.']     Irreverent  ribald ! 
If  so,  beware  the  falling  ruins  !     Hark  ! 
I  tell  thee,  scorner  of  these  whitening  hairs. 
When  this  snow  melteth  there  shall  come  a  flood ! 
Avaunt !  my  name  is  Richelieu,  —  I  defy  thee  ! 
Walk  blindfold  on  ;  behind  thee  stalks  the  headsman.  — 
Ha  I  ha  !  —  how  pale  he  is  !     Heaven  save  m}'  country  ! 

[^Falls  back  in  Joseph's  arms.     Julie  kneels  at  his  side; 

Baradas  stands 
Curtain  falls. 


634  CHOICE    READINGS. 


THE  SCHOOL  TOR  SCANDAL. 

Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan. 


Act  II.     Scene  I. 

Sir  Peter  Teazle,  a  rich  old  bachelor,  marries  the  daughtet 
of  a  poor  country  squire,  having  been  captivated  by  her  youth, 
beauty,  and  fascinating  manners.  Suddenly  raised  from 
poverty  to  the  ivealth  for  which  she  marries,  she  plunges  into 
every  extravagance,  gayety,  and  frivolity,  much  to  the  displeas- 
ure of  Sir  Peter.  The  dispaHty  of  their  ages  causes  him  to 
be  sneered  at  by  his  acquaintances,  and  to  be  beset  and  per- 
plexed by  the  assaults  of  a  flippant  society.  This  state  of 
affairs  is  a  constayit  irritant,  resulting,  very  naturally,  in 
many  matrimonial  quarrels. 

Scene  :    Sir  Peter's  house. 

Enter  Lady  Teazle  and  Sir  Peter. 

Sir  P.    Lady  Teazle,  Lady  Teazle,  I'll  not  bear  it ! 

Lady  T.  Sir  Peter,  Sir  Peter,  you  may  bear  it  or  not,  as 
3'ou  please  ;  but  I  ought  to  have  my  own  way  in  eveiy  thing  ; 
and,  what's  more,  I  will  too.  What  though  I  was  educated 
in  the  country,  I  know  very  well  that  women  of  fashion  in 
London  are  accountable  to  nobody  after  they  are  married. 

Sir  P.  Very  well,  ma'am,  very  well ;  so  a  husband  is  to 
have  no  influence,  no  authorit}? 

Lady  T.  Authority !  No,  to  be  sure :  if  you  wanted 
authority  over  me,  you  should  have  adopted  me,  and  not 
married  me ;  I  am  sure  you  were  old  enough. 

Sir  P.  Old  enough  !  ay,  there  it  is !  Well,  well,  Lad}' 
Teazle,  though  my  life  may  be  made  unhappy  by  your  tem- 
per, I'll  not  be  ruined  by  your  extravagance. 

Lady  T.  My  extravagance !  I'm  sure  I'm  not  more  ex- 
travagant than  a  woman  ought  to  be. 

Sir  P.  No,  no,  madam,  you  shall  throw  away  no  more 
sums  on  such  unmeaning  luxury.     'Slife  !  to  spend  as  much 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL.  635 

to  furnish  3'our  dressiug-room  with  flowers  in  Winter  as 
would  suffice  to  turn  the  Pantheon  into  a  green-house,  and 
give  a  f^te  champ^tre  at  Christmas  ! 

Lady  T.  Sir  Peter,  am  I  to  blame  because  flowers  are 
dear  in  cold  weather?  You  should  find  fault  with  the  cli- 
mate, and  not  with  me.  For  my  part,  I'm  sure,  I  wish  it 
was  Spring  all  the  year  round,  and  that  roses  grew  under  our 
feet! 

Sir  P.  Oons,  madam !  if  3'ou  had  been  born  to  this,  I 
shouldn't  wonder  at  your  talking  thus  ;  but  you  forget  what 
your  situation  was  when  I  married  you. 

Lady  T.  No,  no,  I  don't ;  'twas  a  very  disagreeable  one, 
or  I  should  never  have  married  30U. 

Sir  P.  Yes,  3-es,  madam,  you  were  then  in  somewhat  a 
humbler  style,  —  the  daughter  of  a  plain  countrv  Squire. 
Recollect,  Lady  Teazle,  when  1  first  saw  3'ou  sitting  at  3'our 
tambour,  in  a  pretty  figured  linen  gown,  with  a  bunch  of 
keys  at  your  side  ;  30ur  hair  com])ed  smooth  over  a  roll, 
and  your  apartment  hung  round  with  fruits  in  worsted,  of 
3'our  own  working. 

Lady  T.  O,  yes  !  I  remember  it  very  well,  and  a  curious 
life  I  led.  M3'  dail3'  occupation  to  inspect  the  dair3',  superin- 
tend the  poultry,  make  extracts  from  the  family  receipt- 
book,  —  and  comb  my  Aunt  Deborah's  lap-dog. 

Sir  P.   Yes,  yes,  ma'am,  'twas  so,  indeed  ! 

Lady  T.  And  then,  you  know,  m3'  evening  amusements  : 
To  draw  patterns  for  ruffles,  which  I  had  not  materials  to 
make  up  ;  to  play  Pope  Joan  with  the  curate  ;  to  read  a  ser- 
mon to  my  aunt ;  or  to  be  stuck  down  to  an  old  spinet  to 
strum  m3'  father  to  sleep  after  a  fox-chase. 

Sir  P.  I  am  glad  you  have  so  good  a  memor3'.  Yes, 
madam,  these  were  the  recreations  I  took  you  from ;  but 
now  3'ou  must  have  3'Our  coach  —  vis-d,-vis  —  and  three  pow- 
dered footmen  before  your  chair ;  and,  in  the  Summer,  a  pair 
of  white  cats  to  draw  3'OU  to  Kensington  Gardens.  No  rec- 
ollection, I  suppose,  when  3-ou  were  content  to  ride  double, 
behind  the  butler,  on  a  docked  coach-horse. 


636  CHOICE   READINGS. 

Lady  T.  No,  I  swear  I  never  did  that!  I  deny  the 
butler  and  the  coach-horse. 

Sir  P.  This,  madam,  was  your  situation  ;  and  what  have 
I  done  for  you?  I  have  made  30U  a  woman  of  fashion,  of 
fortune,  of  rank  ;  in  short,  I  have  made  you  my  wife. 

Lady  T.  Well  then,  and  there  is  but  one  thing  more 
you  can  make  me,  and  add  to  the  obligation,  and  that  is  — 

Sir  P.    My  widow,  I  suppose  ? 

Lady  T.    Hem  !  hem  ! 

Sir  P.  I  thank  you,  madam,  but  don't  flatter  ^-ourself; 
for,  though  your  ill  conduct  may  disturb  my  peace  of  mind, 
it  shall  never  break  my  heart,  I  promise  you  :  however,  I  am 
equally  obliged  to  you  for  the  hint. 

Lady  T.  Then  why  will  you  endeavour  to  make  j-ourself 
so  disagreeable  to  me,  and  thwart  me  in  every  little  elegani. 
expense  ? 

Sir  P.  'Slife,  madam  !  I  say,  had  3-0U  any  of  these  little 
elegant  expenses  when  ^-ou  married  me  ? 

Lady  T.  Lud,  Sir  Peter !  would  you  have  me  l)e  out  of 
the  fashion? 

Sir  P.  The  fashion,  indeed !  What  had  you  to  do  with 
the  fashion  before  you  married  me  ? 

Lady  T.  For  m}'  part,  I  should  think  3^ou  would  like  to 
have  your  wife  thought  a  woman  of  taste. 

Sir  P.  Ay,  there  again  !  taste  !  Zounds,  madam  !  you  had 
no  taste  when  you  married  me. 

Lady  T.  That's  very  true  indeed.  Sir  Peter;  and,  after 
having  married  you,  I  should  never  pretend  to  taste  again,  I 
allow.  But  now.  Sir  Peter,  since  we  have  finished  our  daily 
jangle,  I  presume  I  ma}'  go  to  m^^  engagement  at  Lady 
Sneerwell's? 

Sir  P.  Ay,  there's  another  precious  circumstance,  —  a 
charming  set  of  acquaintance  you  have  made  there  ! 

Lady  T.  Nay,  Sir  Peter,  the}'  are  all  people  of  i-ank  and 
fortune,  and  remarkably  tenacious  of  reputation. 

Sir  P.  Yes,  egad,  they  are  tenacious  of  reputation  with  a 
vengeance ;    for  they  don't   choose  anybody  should  have  a 


THE  SCHOOL,  FOR  SCANDAL.  637 

character  but  themselves.  Such  a  crew !  Ah !  many  a 
wretch  has  rid  on  a  hurdle  who  has  done  less  mischief  than 
these  utterers  of  forged  tales,  coiners  of  scandal,  and  clip- 
l)ers  of  reputation. 

Lady  T.    What !  would  you  restrain  the  freedom  of  speech  ? 

Sir  P.  Ah !  the}'  have  made  30U  just  as  bad  as  any  one 
of  the  society. 

Lady  T.  Why,  I  believe  I  do  bear  a  part  with  a  tolerable 
grace. 

Sir  P.   Grace,  indeed ! 

Lady  T.  But  I  vow  I  bear  no  malice  against  the  people  I 
abuse.  When  I  svi\  an  ill-natured  thing,  'tis  out  of  pure 
good-liuniour ;  and  I  take  it  for  granted,  the}'  deal  exactly 
in  the  same  manner  with  me.  But,  Sir  Peter,  you  know  you 
promised  to  come  to  Lady  Sneerwell's  too. 

Sir  P.  Well,  well  ;  I'll  call  in  just  to  look  after  my  own 
character. 

Lady  T.  Then  indeed  you  must  make  haste  after  me,  or 
you'll  be  too  late.     So,  good-bye  to  ye  !   \_Exit  Lady  Teazle. 

Sir  P.  So  !  I  have  gained  much  by  my  intended  expos- 
tulation ;  yet  with  what  a  charming  air  she  contradicts 
every  thing  I  say,  and  how  pleasingly  she  shows  her  con- 
tempt for  my  authority  !  Well,  though  I  can't  make  her 
love  me,  there  is  great  satisfaction  in  quarrelling  with  her ; 
and  I  thinlv  she  never  appears  to  such  advantage  as  when 
she  is  doing  every  thing  in  her  power  to  plague  me.      \^Exit. 


Act  III.     Scene  I. 

Scene  :  Sir  Peter  Teazle's  house.  More  matrimonial 
troubles.  Sir  Peter  Jias  been  bitterly  reproving  his  ward, 
Maria,  who  hasj^ist  left  the  room. 

Sir  P.  Was  ever  man  so  crossed  as  I  am  ?  Every  thing 
conspiring  to  fret  me  !  I  had  not  been  involved  in  matri- 
mony a  fortnight,  before  her  father,  a  hale  and  hearty  man, 


638  CHOICE   READINGS. 

died,  on  purpose,  I  believe,  for  tlie  pleasure  of  plaguing  me 
with  the  care  of  his  daughter.  \_Lady  Teazle  sings  imthout.'\ 
But  here  comes  my  helpmate  !  She  appears  in  great  good- 
humour.  How  happy  I  should  be  if  I  could  tease  her  into 
loving  me,  though  but  a  little  ! 

Enter  Lady  Teazle. 

Lady  T.  Lud  !  Sir  Peter,  I  hope  you  haven't  been  quar- 
relling with  Maria  ?  It  is  not  using  me  well  to  be  ill-humoured 
when  I  am  not  by. 

Sh'  P.  Ah  !  Lady  Teazle,  you  might  have  the  power  to 
make  me  good-humoured  at  all  times. 

Lady  T.  I  am  sure  I  wish  I  had  ;  for  I  want  you  to  be  in 
a  charming  sweet  temper  at  this  moment.  Do  be  good- 
humoured  now,  and  let  me  have  two  hundred  pounds,  will  you  ? 

Sir  P.  Two  hundred  pounds !  What,  ain't  I  to  be  in  a 
good-humour  without  paying  for  it?  But  speak  to  me  thus, 
and  i'  faith  there's  nothing  I  could  refuse  3'ou.  You  shall 
have  it;  [^Gives  her  7iotes.']  but  seal  me  a  bond  of  repay- 
ment. 

Lady  T.  O  no !  there,  my  note  of  hand  will  do  as  well. 
\_Offering  her  hand.'\ 

Sir  P.  And  30U  shall  no  longer  reproach  me  with  not 
giving  you  an  independent  settlement.  I  mean  shortly  to 
surprise  you  :   but  shall  we  always  live  thus,  hey? 

Lady  T.  If  you  please.  I'm  sure  I  don't  care  how  soon 
we  leave  off  quarrelling,  provided  you'll  own  you  were  tired 
first. 

Sir  P.  Well,  then  let  our  future  contest  be,  who  shall 
be  most  obliging. 

Lady  T.  I  assure  you,  Sir  Peter,  good-nature  becomes 
you.  You  look  now  as  you  did  before  we  were  married, 
when  you  used  to  walk  with  me  under  the  elms,  and  tell  me 
stories  of  what  a  gallant  you  were  in  your  youth ;  and  chuck 
me  under  the  chin,  you  would;  and  ask  me  if  I  thought  I 
could  love  an  old  fellow,  who  would  deny  me  nothing ; 
didn't  you  ? 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL.  639 

Sir  p.    Yes,  yes  ;  and  you  were  as  kind  and  attentive  — 

Lady  T.  Ay,  so  I  was,  aud  would  always  take  your  part, 
when  my  acquaintance  used  to  abuse  you,  and  turn  you  into 
ridicule. 

Sir  P.    Indeed  ! 

Lady  T.  Ay,  and  when  m}-  cousin  Soph3'  has  called  you 
a  stiff,  peevish  old  bachelor,  and  laughed  at  me  for  thinking 
of  marrying  one  who  might  be  my  father,  I  have  always 
defended  you,  and  said  I  didn't  think  you  so  ugly  bj*  any 
means. 

Sir  P.   Thank  you. 

Lady  T.  And  I  dared  say  you'd  make  a  very  good  sort 
of  a  husband. 

>S'(V  P.  And  you  prophesied  right;  and  we  shall  now  be 
the  happiest  couple  — - 

Lady  T.    And  never  differ  again.      [Both  sit.'\ 

Sir  P.  No,  never!  —  though  at  the  same  time,  indeed, 
my  dear  Lady  Teazle,  j^ou  must  watch  your  temper  ver}' 
seriously  ;  for  in  all  our  little  quarrels,  my  dear,  if  you  rec- 
ollect, my  love,  you  always  begin. 

Lady  T.  I  beg  your  pardon,  ni}'  dear  Sir  Peter;  indeed, 
you  always  gave  the  provocation. 

Sir  P.  Now  see,  my  angel !  take  care,  —  contradicting 
isn't  the  way  to  keep  friends. 

Lady  T.    Then  don't  you  begin  it,  my  love  ! 

Sir  P.  There,  now  !  you  —  you  are  going  on.  You  don't 
perceive,  my  life,  that  you  are  just  doing  the  very  thing 
which  you  know  always  makes  me  angry. 

Lady  T.  Nay,  you  know  if  you  will  be  angry  without  any 
reason,  my  dear  — 

Sir  P.   There !  now  you  want  to  quarrel  again. 

Lady  T.  No,  I  am  sure  I  don't;  but  if  you  will  be  so 
peevish  — 

Sir  P.    There  now  !  who  begins  first  ? 

Lady  T.  Wh}^  j'ou,  to  be  sure.  [^Both  start  wp.]  I  said 
nothing  ;  but  there's  no  bearing  your  temper. 

Sir  P.    No,  no,  madam  ;  the  fault's  in  your  own  temper. 


640  CHOICE   READINGS. 

Lady  T.  Ay,  you  are  just  what  my  cousin  Sophy  said 
3'ou  would  be. 

Sir  P.    Your    cousin    Sophy   is    a    forward,    impertinent 

gypsy. 

Lady  T.   You  are  a  gi'eat  bear,   I'm  sure,  to  abuse  my 

relations. 

Sir  P.  Now,  may  all  the  plagues  of  marriage  be  doubled 
on  me,  if  ever  I  try  to  be  friends  with  you  any  more. 

Lady  T.    So  much  the  better. 

Sir  P.  No,  no,  madam ;  'tis  evident  you  never  cared  a 
pin  for  me,  and  I  was  a  madman  to  marry  you, — a  pert, 
rural  coquette,  that  had  refused  half  the  honest  squires  in 
the  neighbourhood. 

Lady  T.  And  I  am  sure  I  was  a  fool  to  marry  you,  — an 
old  dangling  bachelor,  who  was  single  at  fifty,  only  because 
he  never  could  meet  with  any  one  who  would  have  him. 

Sir  P.  Ay,  ay,  madam  ;  but  you  were  pleased  enough  to 
listen  to  me  ;  you  never  had  such  an  offer  before. 

Lady  T.  No?  didn't  I  refuse  Sir  Tivy  Terrier,  who  every- 
body said  would  have  been  a  better  match  ?  for  his  estate  is 
just  as  good  as  yours,  and  he  has  broke  his  neck  since  we 
have  been  married. 

Sir  P.  I  have  done  with  you,  madam !  You  are  an  un- 
feeling, ungi-ateful  —  but  there's  an  end  of  everything.  I 
believe  you  capable  of  every  thing  that  is  bad.  Yes, 
madam,  I  now  believe  the  reports  relative  to  ^^ou  and 
Charles,  madam.  Yes,  madam,  you  and  Charles  are  —  not 
without  grounds  — 

Lady  T.  Take  care,  Sir  Peter !  you  had  better  not  insinu- 
ate any  such  thing !  I'll  not  be  suspected  without  cause,  I 
promise  you. 

Sir  P.  Very  well,  madam !  very  well !  A  separate  main- 
tenance as  soon  as  30U  please  !  Yes  madam,  or  a  divorce  ! 
I'll  make  an  example  of  myself  for  the  benefit  of  all  old 
bachelors.     Let  us  separate,  madam. 

Lady  T.  Agreed,  agreed  !  And,  now,  vay  dear  Sir  Peter, 
we  are  of  a  mind  once  more,  we  may  be  the  happiest  couple, 


VIRGINIUS.  641 

and  never  differ  again,  3-011  know, — ha!  ha!  ha!  "Well, 
you  are  going  to  be  in  a  passion,  I  see,  and  I  shall  only 
interrupt  you  ;  so,  bye,  bye.  \_Exit. 

Sir  P.  Plagues  and  tortures !  Can't  I  make  her  angry, 
either?  O,  I  am  the  most  miserable  fellow  !  but  I'll  not 
bear  her  presuming  to  keep  her  temper.  [_Exit. 


VTRGINIUS. 

James  Sheridan  Knowles. 

Act  I.     Scene  II. 

Characters  :  Virginius,  a  Roman  Father ;  Virginia,  his 
daughter ;  Servia,  godmother  to  Virginia  ;  Icilius,  a  young 
Roman  soldier,  in  love  with  Virginia  ;  Dentatus,  an  old 
Decemvir. 

Scene  :  Virginius'  house  in  Rome. 

Enter  Virginius  and  Servia,  with  some  of  Virginia's  work 
in  her  hand. 

Vir.    And  is  this  all  you  have  observed?  I  think 
There's  nothing  strange  in  that.     An  L  and  an  I, 
Twined  with  a  V.     Three  very  innocent  letters, 
To  have  bred  such  mischief  in  thy  brain,  good  Servia! 
Come,  read  this  riddle  to  me. 

Serv.  You  may  laugh, 

Mrginius,  but  I  will  read  the  riddle  right. 
The  L  doth  stand  for  Lucius  ;  and  the  I, 
Icilius  ;  which,  I  take  it,  will  compose 
Lucius  Icilius. 

Vir.  So  it  will,  good  Servia. 

Serv.    Then,  for  the  V  ;  why,  that  is  plain  Virginia. 

Vir.    And  now  what  conjuration  find  you  here? 

Serv.    What  should  I  find  but  love  ?     The  maid's  in  love, 


642  CHOICE  HEADINGS. 

And  it  is  with  Icilius.     Look,  the  wreath 
Is  made  of  roses,  that  entwines  the  letters. 

Vir.   And  this  is  all? 

Serv.  And  is  it  not  enough? 

You'll  find  this  figuring  where'er  you  look  : 
There's  not  a  piece  of  dainty  work  she  does,  — 
Eml)roidery  or  painting,  —  not  a  task 
She  finishes,  but  on  the  skiit  or  border. 
In  needle-work  or  pencil,  this  her  secret 
The  silly  wench  betrays. 

Yir.  Go,  send  her  to  me. 

Stay  !     Have  you  spoken  to  her  of  it  ? 

Serv.  I? 

Not  I,  indeed  ;  I  left  that  task  to  you. 
Though  once  I  ask'd  her  what  the  letters  meant, 
She  laugh'd,  and  drew  a  scratch  across  them  ;  but 
Had  scarce  done  so,  ere  her  fair  visage  fell. 
For  grief  that  she  had  spoil' d  the  ciphers  ;  and 
A  sigh  came  out,  and  then  almost  a  tear ; 
And  she  did  look  as  piteous  on  the  harm 
That  she  had  done,  as  she  had  done  it  to 
A  thing  had  sense  to  feel  it.     Never  after 
She  let  me  note  her  at  the  work  again. 
She  had  good  reason  ! 

Vir.  Send  her  to  me,  Servia.    [^Exit  Servia 

There's  something  here  that  looks  as  it  would  bring  me 
Anticipation  of  my  wish.     I  think 
Icilius  loves  my  daughter,  —  nay,  I  know  it ; 
And  such  a  man  I'd  challenge  for  her  husband, 
And  only  waited  till  her  forward  Spring 
Put  on,  a  little  more,  the  genial  likeness 
Of  colouring  into  Summer,  ere  I  sought 
To  nurse  a  fiower,  which,  blossoming  too  early, 
Too  early  often  dies  ;  but,  if  it  wooes 
Our  hand  to  tend  and  cherish  it,  the  growth 
Is  natural,  and  'twere  unkind  to  check  it. 
I'll  ascertain  it  shortly  :  soft  I  she  comes.  [_Sits. 


VIRGINIUS.  643 


Enter  Virginia. 


Virg.    Well,  father,  Avhat's  30111'  will? 

Vir.  I  wisli'd  to  see  you, 

To  ask  you  of  j'our  tasks,  —  how  thej'  go  on  ; 
And  what  your  masters  say  of  j-ou  ;  what  last 
You  did.     I  hope  you  never  play  the  truant? 

Virg.    The  truant !     No,  indeed,  Virginius. 

Vir.    Vva  sure  you  do  not.     Kiss  me. 

Virg.  O  my  father, 

I  am  so  happy  when  you're  kind  to  me ! 

Vir.    You  are  so  happy  when  I'm  kind  to  you ! 
Am  I  not  always  kind?     I  never  spoke 
An  angry  word  to  you  in  all  m}'  life, 
^'il-g■inia  !     You  are  happ}-  when  I'm  kind  ! 
That's  strange  ;  and  makes  me  think  you  have  some 
Reason  to  fear  I  ma}'  be  otherwise  than  kind : 
Is't  so,  my  girl? 

Virg.  Indeed,  I  did  not  know 

What  I  was  saying  to  you  ! 

Vir.  Why,  that's  worse 

And  worse  I     What !  when  you  said  your  father's  kindness 
Made  3'ou  so  happy,  am  I  to  believe 
You  were  not  thinking  of  him? 

Virg.  I —  [^Greatly  confused. 

Vir.  Go,  fetch  me 

The  latest  task  you  did.     It  is  enough.  —      [Uxit  Virginia. 
Her  artless  speech,  like  crystal,  shows  the  thing 
'Twould  hide,  but  only  covers.     'Tis  enough  ! 
She  loves,  and  fears  her  father  may  condemn. 

He-enter  Virginia  with  a  painting. 

Virg.    Here,  Sir. 
Vir.  What's  this? 

Virg.  'Tis  Homer's  history 

Of  great  Achilles  parting  from  Briseis. 

Vir.    You've  done  it  well :  the  colouring  is  good ; 


644  CHOICE    READINGS. 

The  figure's  well  design'd  :   'tis  ver}'  well ! 
Whose  face  is  this  you've  given  to  Achilles? 

Virg.    Whose  face? 

Vir.  I've  seen  this  face  !     Tut,  tut !     I  know  it 

As  well  as  I  do  my  own,  yet  can't  bethink  me 
Whose  face  it  is  ! 

Virg.  You  mean  Achilles'  face? 

Vir.    Did  I  not  say  so  ?     'Tis  the  very  face 
Of  —  No,  no  !  not  of  him  :  there's  too  much  youth 
And  comeliness ;  and  too  much  fire  to  suit 
The  face  of  Siccius  Dentatus. 

Virg.  O ! 

You  surely  never  took  it  for  his  face ! 

Vir.   Wh}',  no ;  for,  now  I  look  again,  I'd  swear 
You  lost  the  copy  ere  3'ou  drew  the  head, 
And,  to  requite  Achilles  for  the  want 
Of  his  own  face,  contrived  to  borrow  one 
From  Lucius  Icilius.  —  My  Dentatus, 

Enter  Dentatus. 

I'm  glad  to  see  3'ou  !  \_Rises;  Virginia  retires. 

Den.  'Tis  not  for  my  news,  then. 

Vir.    Your  news  !     What  news  ? 

Den.  More  violence  and  wrong  from  these  new  masters 
of  ours,  our  noble  Decemvirs,  —  these  demi-gods  of  the  good 
people  of  Rome  !  No  man's  property  is  safe  from  them. 
Na}-,  it  appears  we  hold  our  wives  and  daughters  but  by  the 
tenure  of  their  will.  Their  liking  is  the  law.  The  Senators 
themselves,  scared  at  their  audacious  rule,  withdraw  them- 
selves to  their  villas,  and  leave  us  to  our  fate.  There  are 
rumours,  also,  of  new  incursions  b}'  the  Sabines. 

Vir.    Rome  never  saw  such  days. 

Den.  And  she'll  see  worse,  unless  I  fail  in  my  reckoning. 
Is  that  Virginia?  \_Goes  to  her.']  I  saw  her  not  before. — 
How  does  the  fair  Virginia?  — Why,  she  is  quite  a  woman. 
I  was  just  now  wishing  for  a  daughter. 

Vir.    A  plague,  you  mean. 


VIRGINIUS.  645 

Den.  I'm  sure  you  should  not  say  so 

Virg.   Indeed  he  should  not ;  and  he  does  not  say  so, 
Dentatus  ;  not  that  I  am  not  a  phigue, 
But  that  he  does  not  think  me  one,  for  all 
I  do  to  weary  him.     I'm  sure,  Dentatus, 
If  to  be  thought  to  do  well  is  to  do  well, 
There's  nothing  I  do  ill.     But  it  is  far 
From  that !  for  few  things  do  I  as  I  ought ; 
Yet  every  thing  is  well  done  with  my  father, 
Dentatus. 

Vir.    \_Goes  to   them.']     That's  well  done,  is  it  not,  my 
friend?  [^Aside. 

But,  if  you  had  a  daughter,  what  would  you  do  with  her  ? 

Den.  I'd  give  her  to  Icilius.  I  should  have  been  just 
now  torn  to  pieces,  but  for  his  good  offices.  The  gentle  citi- 
zens that  are  driven  about  b}'  the  Decemvirs'  Lictors,  like  a 
herd  of  tame  oxen,  and,  with  the  most  beast-like  docility, 
onl}-  low  applauses  to  them  in  return,  would  have  done  me 
the  kindness  to  knock  my  brains  out ;  but  the  noble  Icilius 
bearded  them  singly,  and  railed  them  into  temper.  Had  I 
a  daughter  worth}'  of  such  a  husband,  he  should  have  such  a 
wife,  and  a  Patrician's  dower  along  with  her. 

Vir.  I  wish  to  speak  with  3'ou,  Dentatus.  \_They  retire.~\ 
Icilius  is  a  3'oung  man  whom  I  honour,  but  so  far  only  as  his 
conduct  gives  me  warrant.  He  has  had,  as  thou  knowest,  a 
principal  hand  in  helping  us  to  our  Decemvirs.  It  ma}"  be 
that  he  is  what  I  would  gladly  think  him  ;  but  I  must  see 
him  clearly,  clearly,  Dentatus.  [^Exeunt  Vir.  and  Den. 

Virg.    How  is  it  with  m}'  heart?     I  feel  as  one 
That  has  lost  every  thing,  and  just  before 
Had  nothing  left  to  wish  for !     He  will  cast 
Icilius  off!  —  I  never  told  it  yet ; 
But  take  of  me,  thou  gentle  air,  the  secret. 
And  ever  after  breathe  more  balmy  sweet, 
I  love  Icilius  !     Yes,  although  to  thee 
I  fear  to  tell  it,  that  hast  neither  e3'e 
To  scan  my  looks,  nor  voice  to  echo  me, 


646  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Nor  e'en  an  o'er- apt  ear  to  catch  my  words ; 

Yet,  sweet  invisible  confidant,  my  secret 

Once  being  thine,  I  tell  thee,  and  I  tell  thee 

Again,  and  yet  again,  I  loA^e  Icilius  ! 

He'll  cast  Icilius  off  !  —  not  if  Icilius 

Approves  his  honour.     That  he'll  ever  do  ; 

He  speaks  and  looks  and  moves  a  thing  of  honour, 

Or  honour  ne'er  yet  spoke,  or  look'd,  or  moved. 

Or  was  a  thing  of  Earth.  — O,  come,  Icilius ! 

Do  but  appear,  and  thou  art  vindicated. 

Enter  Icilius. 

Ici.   Virginia  !  sweet  Virginia  !  sure  I  heard 
My  name  pronounced.     Was  it  by  thee,  Virginia? 
Thou  dost  not  answer  ?     Then  it  was  by  thee  : 
O,  wouldst  thou  tell  me  why  thou  namedst  Icilius ! 

Virg.    M}'  father  is  incensed  with  thee  :  Dentatus   , 
Has  told  him  of  the  new  Decemvirate, 
How  they  abuse  their  office.     You,  he  knows, 
Have  favour'd  their  election,  and  he  fears 
May  have  some  understanding  of  their  plans. 

Ici.    He  wrongs  me  then  ! 

Virg.  I  thank  the  gods  ! 

Ici.  For  me, 

Virginia  ?  do  you  thank  the  gods  for  me  ? 
Your  eye  is  moist,  j'et  that  may  be  for  pity ; 
Y''our  hand  doth  tremble,  that  may  be  for  fear ; 
Your  cheek  is  cover'd  o'er  with  blushes  !  what, 
O,  what  can  that  be  for? 

Virg.  Icilius,  leave  me ! 

Id.    Leave  thee,  Virginia?     O,  a  word,  a  word 
Trembles  upon  m}'  tongue,  which,  if  it  match 
The  thought  that  moves  thee  now,  and  thou  wilt  let  me 
Pronounce  that  word,  to  speak  that  thought  for  thee, 
I'll  breathe,  though  I  expire  in  th'  ecstasy 
Of  uttering  it. 

Virg.  Icilius.  will  you  leave  me? 


VIRGINIUS.  647 

Ici.    Love,  love,  Virginia,  love  !     If  I  have  spoke 
Thv  thought  aright,  ne'er  be  it  said  again  : 
The  heart  requires  more  service  than  the  tongue 
Can,  at  its  best,  perform.     My  tongue  hath  served 
Two  hearts  ;  but,  lest  it  should  o'erboast  itself. 
Two  hearts  with  but  one  thought.     Virginia  ! 
Virginia,  speak.  \_She  covers  her  face  with  her  hands 

O,  I  have  loved  thee  long : 
So  much  the  more  ecstatic  m}'  delight. 
To  find  thee  mine  at  length ! 

Virg.  M}'  secret's  30urs. 

Keep  it  and  honour  it,  Icilius. 

Re-enter  Virginius  aiul  Dentatus  behind. 

Vir.    Icilius  here  ! 

Virg.  I  ask  thee  now  to  leave  me. 

Ici,    Leave  thee !     Who  leaves  a  treasure  he  has  coveted 
So  long,  and  found  so  newly,  ere  he  scans  it 
Again,  aud  o'er  again  ;  and  asks  and  answers, 
Repeats  and  answers,  answers  and  re|)eats. 
The  half-mistrustful,  half-assured  question, 
And  is  it  mine  indeed? 

Virg.  Indeed,  indeed  ! 

Now  leave  me. 

Ici.  I  must  see  thy  father  first, 

And  lay  my  soul  before  him. 

Virg.  Not  to-night. 

Id.    Now  worse  than  ever,  dear  Virginia, 
Can  I  endure  his  doubts  :  I'll  lay  m}'  soul 
Naked  before  him  ;  win  his  friendship  quite. 
Or  lose  myself  forever  !  \_Going,  is  met  by  Virginius 

Vir.  Stop,  Icilius ! 

Thou  see'st  that  hand?     It  is  a  Roman's,  boy; 
'Tis  sworn  to  liberty  ;  it  is  the  friend 
Of  honour.     Dost  thou  think  so? 

Ici.  Do  I  think 

Virginius  owns  that  hand? 


648  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Vir.  Then  you'll  believe 

It  has  an  oath  deadly  to  tyraunj', 
And  is  the  foe  of  falsehood  !     By  the  gods, 
Knew  it  the  lurking  place  of  treason,  tliongh 
It  were  a  brother's  heart,  'twould  drag  the  caitiff 
Forth.     Darest  thou  take  the  hand  ? 

Ici.  I  dare,  Virginius. 

Vir.    Then  take  it !     Is  it  weak  in  thy  embrace  ? 
Returns  it  not  th}-  gripe?     Thou  wilt  not  hold 
Faster  b}'  it  than  it  will  hold  by  thee. 
I  overheard  thee  say,  thou  wast  resolved 
To  win  my  friendship  quite :  thou  canst  not  win 
What  thou  hast  won  already !     You  will  stay 
And  sup  with  us  to-night? 

Den.  To  be  sure,  he  will. 

Vir.    And  hark  you,  sir: 
At  your  convenient  time,  appoint  a  day 
Your  friends  and  kinsmen  ma}'  confer  with  me ; 
There  is  a  bargain  I  would  strike  with  you. 
Come  to  the  supper-room. 


Act   II.     Scene  II. 

Virginius'  house.     Enter  Virginius,  Icilius,  Numitorius. 
Lucius,  and  others. 

Vir.    Welcome,  Icilius  !  —  Welcome,  friends  !  —  Icilius, 
I  did  design  to  speak  with  you  of  feasting 
And  merriment,  but  war  is  now  the  word,  — 
One  that  unlovingl}'  keeps  time  with  mirth. 
Unless  war's  own  ;  whene'er  the  battle's  won. 
And,  safe  carousing,  comrades  drink  to  victory ! 

Id.    Virginius,  have  you  changed  your  mind? 

Vir.  My  mind? 

What  mind?     How  now  !     Are  you  that  boy,  Icilius, 
You  set  your  heart  so  earnesth'  upon 
A  dish  of  poor  confections,  that  to  baulk  you 


viRfiiNius.  649 

Makes  you  look  blank  ?     I  did  design  to  feast  you 
Together  with  your  friends.     The  times  are  changed  ; 
The  march,  the  tent,  the  fight  becomes  us  now  ! 

Id.    Virginius  ! 

Vir.  Well? 

Id.  Virginius ! 

Vir.  How  the  boy 

Reiterates  my  name ! 

Id.  There's  not  a  hope 

I  have,  but  is  the  client  of  Virginius. 

Vir.    Well,  well !     I  only  meant  to  put  it  off: 
We'll  have  the  revel  yet ;  the  board  shall  smoke  ; 
The  cup  shall  sparkle,  and  the  jest  shall  soar 
And  mock  us  from  the  roof.     Will  that  content  you? 
Not  till  the  war  be  done,  though.     Yet,  ere  then, 
Some  tongue,  that  now  needs  onl}'  wag  to  make 
The  table  ring,  may  have  a  tale  to  tell 
80  petrifying  that  it  cannot  utter  it. 
I'll  make  all  sure,  that  you  may  be  my  guest 
At  any  rate ;  although  you  should  be  forced 
To  pla}'  the  host  for  me,  and  feast  yourself. 
Look  here.      \_Shoivs  him  a  parchment.^     How  think  you? 

Will  it  meet  the  charge  ? 
AVill  it  not  do?     We  want  a  witness  though : 
I'll  bring  one  ;  whom,  if  3'ou  approve,  I'll  sign 
The  bond.     I'll  wait  upon  you  instantly.  \^Exit. 

Re-enter  Virginius,  with  Virginia  and  Numitorius. 

Vir.    [^Holding  his  daughter's  hand.'\     You    are  my  wit- 
nesses, 
That  this  3'oung  creature  I  present  to  you, 
I  do  pronounce  my  profitably-cherish'd. 
And  most  deservedly-beloved  child  ; 
My  daughter,  truly  filial  both  in  word 
And  act,  yet  even  more  in  act  than  word ; 
And  —  for  the  man  who  seeks  to  win  her  love  — 
A  virgin,  from  whose  li})s  a  soul  as  pure 


650  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Exhales,  as  e'er  i-espouded  to  the  blessing 

Breathed  in  a  parent's  kiss.    \^Kisses  her.^  — Icilius  !     [Icil. 

rushes  towards  Vir.,  and  l-neels.']     Since 
You  are  upon  your  knees,  young  man,  look  up, 
And  lift  your  hands  to  Heaven.     You  will  be  all 
Her  father  has  been,  added  unto  all 
A  lover  would  be  ! 

Ici.  All  that  man  should  be 

To  woman,  I  wull  be  to  her  ! 

Vir.  The  oath 

Is  register'd  !     [Icilius  rises.']     Didst  thou  but  know,  [^TaTces 

a  hand  of  each.]  young  man, 
How  fondly  I  have  watch'd  her,  since  the  day 
Her  mother  died,  and  left  me  to  a  charge 
Of  double  duty  bound  ;  how  she  hath  been 
My  ponder' d  thought  b}'  day,  my  dream  b}-  night, 
My  prayer,  my  vow,  my  offering,  my  praise, 
M\'  sweet  companion,  pupil,  tutor,  child  ; 
Thou  wouldst  not  wonder,  that  my  drowning  eyQ 
And  choking  utterance  upbraid  my  tongue, 
That  tells  thee  she  is  thine  !     \_Joins  their  hands.]     Icilius. 
I  do  betroth  her  to  thee  ;  let  but  the  war 
Be  done,  you  shall  espouse  her.     Now  farewell ; 
Your  sword  and  buckler,  boy  !     The  foe,  the  foe  ! 
Does  he  not  tread  on  Roman  ground?     Come  on, 
Come  on  !  charge  on  him,  drive  him  back,  or  die ! 

Act  IV.     Scene  II. 

Appius,  enamoured  of  Virginia,  wishes  to  get  possession  of 
her;  to  this  end  he  engages  Claudius  to  claim  her  as  his  slave, 
tvho  was  sold  as  an  in f cent  to  the  ivife  of  Virginius  ;  on  the 
trial  Claudius  2')roduces  his  slave,  tvho  sioears  that  Virginia  is 
her  child,  and  Appius,  loho  is  in  2Micer,  accepts  this  false  evi- 
dence. Enter  Virginius,  leading  his  daughter,  Virginia  ; 
NuMiTORius,  her  uncle;  Icilius,  her  husband;  Servia,  her 
godmother ;  and  women  and  children. 


VIRGINIUS.  651 

Scene  :  Tlie  Forum.  Appros  seated  on  the  tribunal^  sur- 
rounded by  his  lictors  and  soldiers.  Claudius  stands  near. 
A  dead  silence  prevails. 

Vir.    Does  no  one  speak  ?     I  am  defendant  here  : 
Is  silence  my  opponent?     Fit  opponent 
To  plead  a  cause  too  foul  for  speech  !     What  brow, 
Shameless,  gives  front  to  this  most  valiant  cause, 
And  tries  its  prowess  'gainst  the  honour  of 
A  girl,  yet  lacks  the  wit  to  know  that  thej- 
Who  cast  off  shame  should  likewise  cast  off  fear, 
And  on  the  verge  o'  the  combat  wants  the  nerve 
To  stammer  forth  the  signal  ? 

Aj)})'  You  had  better, 

Virginias,  wear  another  kind  of  carriage : 
This  is  not  of  the  fashion  that  will  serve  you. 

Vir.    [^Having  left  Virginia  ivith  Icilius.J     The  fashion 
Appius  !     Appius  Claudius,  tell  me 
The  fashion  it  becomes  a  man  to  speak  in, 
Whose  propert}-  in  his  own  child,  the  offspring 
Of  his  own  body,  near  to  him  as  is 
His  hand,  his  arm,  —  yea,  nearer,  closer  far, 
Knit  to  his  heart,  —  I  say,  who  has  this  property 
Disputed,  —  and  I'll  speak  so,  Appius  Claudius  ; 
I'll  speak  so.     Pray  you,  tutor  me. 

App.  Stand  forth, 

Claudius  !     If  you  lay  claim  to  any  interest 
I'  the  question  now  before  us,  speak  ;  if  not, 
Bring  on  some  other  cause. 

Claud.    Most  noble  Appius  — 

Vir.  And  are  you  the  man 

That  claims  my  daughter  for  his  slave  ?      Look  at  me, 
And  I  will  give  her  to  thee. 

Claud.  She  is  mine,  then : 

Do  I  not  look  at  you  ? 

Vir.  Your  eye  does,  truly. 

But  not  your  soul.     I  see  it  through  your  eye, 


652  CHOICE   READINGS. 

Shifting  and  shrinking,  turning  every  way 
To  shun  me.     You  surprise  me,  tliat  ^-our  eye 
But  gives  the  port  of  impudence  to  falsehood, 
When  it  would  pass  it  off  for  truth.     Your  soul 
Dares  as  soon  show  its  face  to  me  !     Go  on, 
I  had  forgot ;  the  fashion  of  m}'  speech 
May  not  please  Appius  Claudius. 

Claud.  I  demand 

Protection  of  the  Decemvir ! 

App.  You  shall  have  it. 

Vir.    Doubtless  ! 

App.  Keep  back  the  people,  Lictors  !  — What's 

Your  plea?     You  say  the  girl's  your  slave.     Produce 
Your  proofs. 

Claud.  My  proof  is  here,  which,  if  they  can, 

Let  them  confront.     The  mother  of  the  girl  — 

[ViRGiNius,  about  to  speak.,  is  withheld  by  Numitorius. 

Num.    Hold,  brother !     Hear  them  out,  or  suffer  me 
To  speak. 

Vir.         Man,  I  must  speak,  or  else  go  mad ! 
And  if  I  do  go  mad,  what  then  will  hold  me 
From  speaking  ?     Were't  not  better,  brother,  think  you, 
To  speak,  and  not  go  mad,  than  utter  madness? 
Well,  well,  speak  thou.     I'll  try,  and,  if  I  can. 
Be  silent.  \_Retires, 

Num.        Will  she  swear  she  is  her  child? 

Vir.    [^Starting  forward. 2     Be  sure  she  will;  a  most  wise 
question  that ! 
She  not  his  slave?     Will  his  tongue  lie  for  him. 
Or  his  hand  steal,  or  the  finger  of  his  hand 
Beckon,  or  point,  or  shut,  or  open  for  him? 
To  ask  him  if  she'll  swear !     Will  she  walk  or  run, 
Sing,  dance,  or  wag  her  head?  do  any  thing 
That  IS  most  easy  done?     She'll  swear  as  soon  I 
What  mockery  it  is,  to  have  one's  life 
In  jeopardy  by  such  a  bare-faced  trick ! 
Is  it  to  be  endured?     I  do  protest 
Affiiinst  her  oath  I 


VIRGINIUS.  653 

App.  No  law  ill  Rome,  Virginius, 

Seconds  30U.     If  she  swear  the  girl's  Iier  child, 
The  evidence  is  good,  unless  confronted 
By  better  evidence.     Look  you  to  that, 
Virginius.     I  shall  take  the  woman's  oath. 

Virg.    Icilius ! 

Id.  Fear  not,  love  :  a  thousand  oaths 

Will  answer  her. 

Apj).    \_To  the  slave.'\     Yon  swear  the  girl's  vour  child, 
And  that  you  sold  her  to  Virginius'  wife, 
Who  pass'd  her  for  her  own.     Is  that  your  oath? 

Slave.    \_Coming  round  to  the  front  of  the  tribunal. '\     It  is 
n\y  oath. 

App.    Your  answer  now,  Virginius. 

Vir.    \_Bringing  Virg.  forivard.']         Here  it  is  ! 
Is  this  the  daughter  of  a  slave  ?     I  know 
'Tis  not  with  men,  as  shrubs  and  trees,  that  by 
The  shoot  you  know  the  rank  and  order  of 
Tlie  stem.     Yet  who  from  such  a  stem  would  look 
For  such  a  shoot  ?     My  witnesses  are  these,  — 
The  friends  and  relatives  of  Numitoria.  — 
Speak  for  me,  friends  :  have  I  not  spoke  the  truth? 

Women  and  Citizens.    You  have,  Virginius. 

App.    Silence  !  keep  silence  there.     No  more  of  that ! 
You're  ver^'  ready  for  a  tumult,  citizens.  — 

[  Ti'oojjs  appear  behind 
Lictors,  make  way  to  let  these  troops  advance  !  — 
We've  had  a  taste  of  your  forbearance,  masters, 
And  wish  not  for  another. 

Vir.  Troops  i'  the  Forum ! 

Ap^.   Virginius,  have  you  spoken? 

Vir.  If  you've  heard  me. 

I  have ;  if  not,  I'll  speak  again. 

App.  You  need  not, 

Virginius  ;  I  have  evidence  to  give, 
Which,  should  you  speak  a  hundred  times  again, 
Would  make  your  pleading  vain. 


654  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Vir.    l^Aside.']  Your  hand,  Virginia ! 

Stand  close  to  me. 

App.  My  conscience  will  not  let  me 

Be  silent.     'Tis  notorious  to  you  all, 
That  Claudius'  father,  at  his  death,  declared  me 
The  guardian  of  his  son.     This  cheat  has  long 
Been  known  to  me.     I  know  the  girl  is  not 
Virginius'  daughter. 

Vir.    [^Aside.^         Join  your  friends,  Icilius, 
And  leave  Virginia  to  my  care. 

Vir.    [^Aside.'j     Don't  tremble,  girl,  don't  tremble. 

App.  Virginius. 

I  feel  for  you ;  but,  though  you  were  my  father, 
The  majesty  of  justice  should  be  sacred  : 
Claudius  must  take  Virginia  liome  with  him  ! 

Vir.    And,  if  he  must,  I  should  advise  him,  Appius, 
To  take  her  home  in  time,  before  his  guardian 
Complete  the  violation,  which  his  eyes 

Alread}'  have  begun. — \_Turning  to  citizens.'\     Friends,  fel- 
low citizens ! 
Look  not  on  Claudius  ;  look  on  3our  Decemvir ! 
He  is  the  master  claims  Virginia. 
The  tongues  that  told  him  she  was  not  my  child 
Are  these,  —  the  costly  charms  he  cannot  purchase, 
Except  by  making  her  the  slave  of  Claudius, 
His  client,  his  purveyor,  that  caters  for 
His  pleasures  ;  markets  for  him ;  picks  and  scents 
And  tastes,  that  he  ma}'  banquet;  serves  him  up 
His  sensual  feast,  and  is  not  now  ashamed, 
In  th'  open,  common  street,  before  your  eyes,  — 
Frightening  your  daughters'  and  3'our  matrons'  cheeks 
With  blushes  they  ne'er  thought  to  meet,  —  to  help  him 
To  th'  honour  of  a  Roman  maid  !  my  child !  • 

Who  now  clings  to  me,  as  you  see,  as  if 
This  second  Tarquin  had  already  coil'd 
His  arms  around  her.     Look  upon  her,  Romans ! 
Befriend  her !  succour  her !  see  her  not  polluted 


vmoiNius.  655 

Before  her  father's  e^-es  !     He  is  but  one. 

Tear  her  from  Appius  and  his  Lictors,  while 

She  is  unstain'd.     Your  hands  !  your  hands  !  your  hands  ! 

Citizens.    They're  yours,  \Mrginins, 

App.  Keep  the  people  back  :  — 

Support  my  Lictors,  soldiers  !  — Seize  the  girl. 
And  drive  the  people  back. 

Ici.  Down  with  the  slaves  ! 

[_TJie people  make  a  show  of  resistance.,  but,  upon  the  ad- 
vancing of  the  soldiers,  retreat,  and  leave  Icilius,  Vir- 
GiNius,  and  his  daughter  in  the  hands  of  Appius  and 
his  party. 
Deserted  !  —  Cowards,  traitors  !  —  Let  me  free,  — 
Let  me  but  loose  a  moment,  if  'tis  onl}- 
To  rush  upon  your  swords  ! 

Vir.  Icilius,  peace  I 

You  see  how  'tis ;  w'e  are  deserted,  left 
Alone,  surrounded  by  our  enemies, 
Nerveless  and  helpless. 

App).    Awa}'  with  him  ! 

Id.    Yirginia  !  —  Tyrant !  —  Mv  Virginia  ! 

App.    Awa}-  with  him  !     [Icil.  is  taken  aside."]     Separate 
them,  Lictors  ! 

Vir.    Let  them  forbear  awhile.  I  pray  you,  Appius : 
It  is  not  very  easy.     Though  her  arms 
Are  tender,  yet  the  hold  is  strong  by  which 
She  grasps  me,  Appius.     Forcing  them  will  hurt  them. 
They'll  soon  unclasp  themselves.     ^Yait  but  a  little ; 
You  know  you're  sure  of  her  ! 

App.  I  have  not  time 

To  idle  with  thee  ;  give  her  to  my  Lictors. 

Vir.    Appius,  I  pray  you,  wait !     If  she  is  not 
My  child,  she  hath  been  like  a  child  to  me 
P'or  fifteen  years.     If  I  am  not  her  father, 
I  have  been  like  a  father  to  her,  Appius, 
For  even  such  a  time.     Let  me  but  take 
The  maid  aside,  I  pray  you,  and  confer 


656  CHOICE    READINGS. 

A  moment  with  her  nurse  ;  perhaps  she'll  give  me 
Some  token,  will  unloose  a  tie  so  twined 
And  knotted  round  my  heart,  that,  if  you  break  it, 
My  heart  breaks  with  it. 

App.  Have  your  wish.     Be  brief !  — 

Lictors,  look  to  them. 

Virg.  Do  you  go  from  me? 

Do  you  leave  ?     Father  !     Father ! 

Vir.  No,  my  child ; 

No,  my  Virginia :  come  along  with  me. 

Virg.  Will  you  not  leave  me  ?   Will  you  take  me  with  you  ? 
Will  you  take  me  home  again?     O,  l)less  you,  bless  you ! 
My  father  !  my  dear  father  !     Art  thou  not 
My  father? 

[ViRGiNius,  perfectly  at  a  loss  what  to  do,  looks  anxiously 
aro^md  the  Forum;  at  length  his  eye  falls  on  a  butcher's 
stall,  with  a  knife  upon  it. 

Vir.    This  way,  m}'  child.     No,  no  !  I  am  not  going 
To  leave  thee,  my  Virginia !     I'll  not  leave  thee. 

App.    Keep  back  the  people,  soldiers  !  let  them  not 
Approach  Virginius  !  keep  the  people  back  !  — 

[ViRGiNius  secures  the  knife  in  the  folds  of  his  toga. 
Well,  have  you  done  ? 

Vir.    Short  time  for  converse,  Appius  ;  but 
I  have. 

App.    I  hope  you're  satisfied. 

Vir.  I  am  — 

I  am  —  that  she's  my  daughter  ! 

App.  Take  her,  Lictors ! 

[Virginia  shrieks,  and  falls  half  dead  upon  her  father's 

shoulder. 

Vir.    Another  moment,  pray  you.     Bear  with  me 
A  little  ;  'tis  my  last  embrace  :   'twou't  tr}^ 
Your  patience  beyond  bearing,  if  you're  a  man  ! 
Lengthen  it  as  I  may,  I  cannot  make  it 

Long.  —  My  dear  child  !  my  dear  Virginia  !        [^Kissing  her. 
There  is  one  only  way  to  save  thine  honour,  — 


ION  ;    A  TRAGEDY.  657 

'Tis  this  !  —  [^Stabs  her,  and  draws  out  the  knife.     She  falls 

and  dies.']     Lo,  Appius  !  with  this  innocent  blood, 
I  do  devote  thee  to  th'  infernal  gods  !  — 
Make  wa}-  there  ! 

Ajjp.  Stop  him  !     Seize  him  ! 

Vir.  If  they  dare 

To  tempt  the  desperate  weapon  that  is  madden'd 
With  drinking  my  daughter's  blood,  why,  let  them :  thus 
It  rushes  in  amongst  them.  —  Wa}'  there  !     Wa^' ! 

l^Exit  through  the  soldiers. 

ION;    A   TEAGEDY. 

SiK  T.  N.  Talfourd. 


Act  I.     Scene  I. 

Characters  :  Agenor,  Cleon,  and  Timocles,  Sages  oj 
Argos;  Medon,  High-Priest  of  ApoUo;  Clemanthe,  his 
daughter ;  Habra,  her  attendant.  Ion,  the  hero,  was  stolen 
from  his  nursery  ivhile  an  infant,  by  two  villains,  ivith  the 
intent  of  putting  him  to  death;  but,  just  as  they  ivere  in  the 
act  of  doing  this,  one  of  the  men  perished  through  a  sudden 
accident;  which  so  struck  the  other  with  fear  and  remorse 
that  he  left  the  child  in  the  Grove  of  Apollo,  where  he  loas 
found  by  Medon,  and  brought  iip  as  Jiis  foster-son.  In  the 
course  of  the  play.  Ion  is  discovered  to  have  been  the  first- 
born of  Adrastus,  the  tyrant  king  of  Argos. 

Scene:  Tlie  interior  of  the  Temple  of  Apollo,  which  is 
supposed  to  be  built  on  a  rocky  eminence.     Early  morning. 

Present,  Agenor  :   To  him  enter  Cleon. 

Cleon.    Agenor,  hail ! 
Dark  as  our  lot  remains,  'tis  comfort  yet 
To  find  thy  age  unstricken. 


658  CHOICE   READINGS. 

Age.  Rather  mourn 

That  I  am  destined  still  to  linger  here 
In  strange  unnatural  strength,  while  death  is  round  me. 
I  chide  these  sinews  that  are  framed  so  tough 
Grief  cannot  pais}'  them  ;  I  chide  the  air 
Which  round  this  citadel  of  Nature  breathes 
With  sweetness  not  of  this  world ;  I  would  share 
The  common  grave  of  my  dear  countrymen, 
And  sink  to  rest  while  all  familiar  things 
Old  custom  has  endear'd  are  failing  with  me, 
Rather  than  shiver  on  in  life  behind  them  : 
Nor  should  these  walls  detain  me  from  the  paths 
Where  death  may  be  embraced,  but  that  my  word, 
In  a  rash  moment  plighted  to  our  host, 
Forbids  me  to  depart  without  his  license, 
Which  firmly  he  refuses. 

Cleon.  Do  not  chide  me 

If  I  rejoice  to  find  the  generous  Priest 
Means,  with  Apollo's  blessing,  to  preserve 
The  treasure  of  th}'  wisdom  :  na}-,  he  trusts  not 
To  promises  alone  ;  his  gates  are  barr'd 
Against  thy  egress :  none,  indeed,  may  pass  them 
Save  the  youth  Ion,  to  whose  earnest  prayer 
His  foster-father  grants  reluctant  leave 
To  visit  the  sad  city  at  his  will : 
And  freeh'  does  he  use  the  dangerous  boon, 
Which,  in  my  thought,  the  love  that  cherish'd  him. 
Since  he  was  found  within  the  sacred  grove 
Smiling  amidst  the  storm,  a  most  rare  infant, 
Should  have  had  sternness  to  deny. 

Age.  What,  Ion 

The  only  inmate  of  this  fane  allow'd 
To  seek  the  mournful  walks  where  death  is  ])usy ! 
Ion,  our  sometime  darling,  whom  we  prized 
As  a  stray  gift,  by  bounteous  Heaven  dismiss'd 
From  some  bright  sphere  which  sorrow  may  not  cloud. 
To  make  the  happy  happier !     Is  he  sent 


ION  ;    A  TRAGEDY. 

To  grapple  with  the  miseries  of  this  time, 

Whose  nature  such  ethereal  aspect  wears 

As  it  would  perish  at  the  touch  of  wrong? 

By  no  internal  contest  is  he  train'd 

P'or  such  hard  duty  ;  no  emotion  rude 

Hath  his  clear  spirit  vanquish'd  :  Love,  the  germ 

Of  his  mild  nature,  hath  spread  graces  forth, 

Expanding  with  its  progress,  as  the  store 

Of  rainbow  colours  which  the  seed  conceals 

Sheds  out  its  tints  from  its  dim  treasury, 

To  flush  and  circle  in  the  flower.     No  tear 

Hath  fiU'd  his  eye  save  that  of  thoughtful  joy 

When,  in  the  evening  stillness,  lovely  things 

Press'd  on  his  soul  too  busily  :  his  voice, 

If,  in  the  earnestness  of  childish  sports. 

Raised  to  the  tone  of  anger,  check'd  its  force, 

As  if  it  fear'd  to  break  its  being's  law. 

And  falter'd  into  music  :  when  the  forms 

Of  guilty  passion  have  been  made  to  live 

In  pictured  speech,  and  others  have  wax'd  loud 

In  righteous  indignation,  he  hath  heard 

"With  sceptic  smile,  or  from  some  slender  vein 

Of  goodness,  which  surrounding  gloom  conceaTd, 

Struck  sunlight  o'er  it :  so  his  life  hath  flow'd 

From  its  mysterious  urn  a  sacred  stream. 

In  whose  calm  depth  the  beautiful  and  pure 

Alone  are  mirror'd  ;  which,  though  shapes  of  ill 

Ma}-  hover  round  its  surface,  glides  in  light. 

And  takes  no  shadow  from  them. 

Cleon.  Yet,  methinks, 

Thou  hast  not  lately  met  him,  or  a  change 
Pass'd  strangely  on  him  had  not  miss'd  th}'  wonder. 
His  form  appears  dilated  ;  in  those  eyes 
Where  pleasure  danced,  a  thoughtful  sadness  dwells 
Stern  purpose  knits  the  forehead,  which  till  now 
Knew  not  the  passing  wrinkle  of  a  care  : 
Those  limbs  which  in  their  heedless  motion  own'd 


659 


660  CHOICE    READINGS. 

A  stripling's  playful  happiness  are  strung 

As  if  the  iron  hardships  of  the  camp 

Had  given  them  sturdy  nurture ;  and  his  step, 

Its  airiness  of  yesterday  forgotten, 

Awakes  the  echoes  of  these  desolate  courts, 

As  if  a  hero  of  gigantic  mould 

Paced  them  in  armour. 

Age.  Hope  is  in  thy  tale. 

This  is  no  freak  of  Nature's  wayward  course, 
But  work  of  pitying  Heaven  ;  for  not  in  vain 
The  gods  have  pour'd  into  that  guileless  heart 
The  strengths  that  nerve  the  hero ;  they  are  ours. 

Cleon.    How  can  he  aid  us?     Can  he  sta}'  the  pulse 
Of  ebbing  life,  arrest  th'  infected  winds, 
Or  smite  the  hungry  spectre  of  the  grave  ? 

Age.    And  dost  thou  think  these  breezes  are  our  foes. 
The  innocent  airs  that  used  to  dance  around  us, 
As  if  they  felt  the  blessings  thej-  convey'd, 
Or  that  the  death  they  bear  is  casual  ?     No ! 
'Tis  human  guilt  that  blackens  in  the  cloud. 
Flashes  athwart  its  mass  in  jagged  fire, 
Whirls  in  the  hurricane,  pollutes  the  air. 
Turns  all  the  joyous  melodies  of  Earth 
To  murmurings  of  doom.     There  is  a  foe 
Who  in  the  glorious  summit  of  the  State 
Draws  down  the  great  resentment  of  the  gods, 
Whom  he  defies  to  strike  us ;  yet  his  power 
Partakes  that  just  infirmitj'  which  Nature 
Blends  in  the  empire  of  her  proudest  sons,  — 
That  it  is  cased  within  a  single  breast, 
And  may  be  pluck'd  thence  by  a  single  arm. 
Let  but  that  arm,  selected  by  the  gods, 
Do  its  great  office  on  the  tyrant's  life. 
And  Argos  breathes  again  ! 

Cleon.  A  footstep  !  hush  I 

Thy  wishes,  falling  on  a  slavish  ear. 
Would  tempt  another  outrage  :  'tis  a  friend,  — 


ION  ;    A  TRAGEDY.  661 

An  honest  though  a  crabbed  one,  — Timocles  : 
Something  hath  ruffled  hun.  — Good  day,  Timocles  !  — 

[Timocles  passes  in  front. 
He  will  not  speak  to  us. 

Age.  But  he  sJiall  speak.  — 

Timocles  ! — nay  then,  thus  I  must  enforce  thee  :  \_Stayin(j  him. 
Thou  wilt  not  cast  from  thee  a  comrade's  hand 
That  may  be  cold  ere  sunset. 

Tim.    [^Giving  his  /tawcZ.]     Thou  mayst  school  me  ; 
Thy  years  and  love  have  license  :  but  I  own  not 
A  stripling's  mastery:  is't  fit,  Agenor? 

Age.    Nay,  thou  must  tell  thy  wrong  :  whate'er  it  prove, 
I  hail  thy  auger  as  a  hopeful  sign. 
For  it  revives  the  thought  of  household  days, 
"When  the  small  bickerings  of  friends  had  space 
To  fret,  and  Death  was  not  for  ever  nigh 
To  frown  upon  Estrangement.     What  has  moved  thee? 

Tim.    I  blush  to  tell  it.     Weary  of  the  night 
And  of  my  life,  I  sought  the  western  portal : 
It  open'd,  when,  ascending  from  the  stair 
That  through  the  rock  winds  spiral  from  the  town, 
Ion,  the  foundling  cherish'd  by  the  Priest, 
Stood  in  the  entrance  :  with  such  mild  command 
As  he  has  often  smilingly  obey'd, 
I  bade  him  stand  aside  and  let  me  pass ; 
When,  —  wouldst  thou  think  it?  —  in  determined  speech, 
He  gave  me  counsel  to  return  :  I  press'd 
Impatient  onward  ;  he,  with  honied  phrase 
His  daring  act  excusing,  grasp'd  m}-  arm 
With  strength  resistless  ;  led  me  from  the  gate ; 
Replaced  its  ponderous  bars  ;  and,  with  a  look 
As  modest  as  he  wore  in  childhood,  left  me. 

Age.    And  thou  wilt  thank  him  for  it  soon  :  he  comes  ; 
Now  hold  thy  angry  purpose  if  thou  canst ! 

Enter  Ion. 

Ion.    I  seek  thee,  good  Timocles,  to  implore 
Again  thy  pardon.     I  am  young  in  trust, 


662  CHOICE    READINGS. 

And  fear  lest,  in  the  earnestness  of  love, 

I  staj^'d  thy  course  too  rudely.     Thou  hast  borne 

My  childish  folly  often  :  do  not  frown 

If  I  have  ventured  with  unmanner'd  zeal 

To  guard  the  ripe  experience  of  3'ears 

From  one  rash  moment's  danger. 

Tim.  Leave  thy  care. 

If  I  am  weary  of  the  flutterer  life, 
Is  mortal  bidding  thus  to  cage  it  in  ? 

Ion.    And  art  thou  tired  of  being?     Has  the  grave 
No  terrors  for  thee  ?     Hast  thou  sunder'd  quite 
Those  thousand  meshes  which  old  custom  weaves 
To  bind  us  earthward,  and  gay  fancy  films 
With  airy  lustre  various  ?     Hast  subdued 
Those  cleavings  of  the  spirit  to  its  prison, 
Those  nice  regards,  dear  habits,  pensive  memories, 
That  change  the  valour  of  the  thoughtful  breast 
To  brave  dissimulation  of  its  fears? 
Is  Hope  quench'd  in  thy  bosom  ?     Thou  art  free, 
And  in  the  simple  dignity  of  man 
Standest  apart  untempted  :  do  not  lose 
The  great  occasion  thou  hast  plucked  from  misery, 
Nor  play  the  spendthrift  with  a  great  despair, 
But  use  it  nobly  ! 

Tim.  What,  to  strike?  to  slay? 

Ion.    No  !  not  unless  the  audible  voice  of  Heaven 
Call  thee  to  that  dire  office  ;  but  to  shed. 
On  ears  abused  by  falsehood,  truths  of  power 
In  words  immortal ;  not  such  words  as  flash 
From  the  fierce  demagogue's  unthinking  rage, 
To  madden  for  a  moment  and  expire  ; 
Nor  such  as  the  rapt  orator  imbues 
With  warmth  of  facile  sympatic,  and  moulds 
To  mirrors  radiant  with  fair  images, 
To  grace  the  noble  fervour  of  an  hour ; 
But  words  which  bear  the  spirits  of  great  deeds 
Wing'd  for  the  Future  ;  which  the  dying  breath 


ION  ;    A  TRAGEDY.  663 

Of  Freedom's  martyr  shapes  as  it  exhales, 

And  to  the  most  enduring  forms  of  Earth 

Commits,  to  linger  in  the  cragg}'  shade 

Of  the  huge  valley,  'neath  the  eagle's  home. 

Till  some  heroic  leader  bid  them  wake 

To  thrill  the  world  with  echoes  !     But  I  talk 

Of  things  above  my  grasp,  which  strangely  press 

Upon  my  soul,  and  tempt  me  to  forget 

The  duties  of  my  j'outh  :  pray  3'ou  forgive  me. 

Tim.    Have  I  not  said  so? 

Age.  AVelcome  to  the  morn  ! 

The  eastern  gates  unfold,  the  Priest  approaches  ; 

\_As  Agexok  S2)eaks,  the  great  gates  at  the  back  of  the  scene 
open;  the  sea  is  discovered  far  beneath,  the  dawn  break- 
ing over  it;  Medon,  the  Priest,  enters  attended. 
And,  lo !  the  Sun  is  struggling  with  the  gloom, 
AYhose  masses  fill  the  eastern  sky,  and  tints 
Its  edges  with  dull  red  :  but  he  loiU  triumph  ; 
Bless'd  be  the  omen  ! 

3fed.  God  of  light  and  joy. 

Once  more  refresh  us  with  thy  healing  beams ! 
If  I  maj'  trace  thy  language  in  the  clouds 
That  wait  upon  thy  rising,  help  is  nigh, 
But  help  achieved  in  blood. 

Ion.  Say'st  thou  in  blood  ? 

Med.    Yes,  Ion  !  — why,  he  sickens  at  the  word, 
Spite  of  his  new-born  strength  :  the  sights  of  woe 
That  he  will  seek  have  shed  their  paleness  on  him.  — 
Has  this  night's  walk  shown  more  than  common  sorrow' 

Io7i.    I  pass'd  the  palace  where  the  frantic  King 
Yet  holds  his  crimson  revel,  whence  the  roav 
Of  desperate  mirth  came  mingling  with  the  sigh 
Of  death-subdued  robustness,  and  the  gleam 
Of  festal  lamps,  'mid  spectral  columns  hung 
Flaunting  o'er  shapes  of  anguish,  made  them  ghastlier. 
How  can  I  cease  to  tremble  for  the  sadness 
He  mocks,  and  him  the  wretchedest  of  all? 


664  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Tim.    And  canst  thon  pity  him  ?     Dost  thou  discern. 
Amidst  his  impious  dariugs,  plea  for  him  ? 

Ion.    Is  he  not  childless,  friendless,  and  a  king? 
He's  human  ;  and  some  pulse  of  good  must  live 
Within  his  nature  :   have  ye  tried  to  wake  it? 

Med.    Yes,  I  believe  he  felt  our  sufferings  once ; 
When,  at  my  strong  entreaty,  he  dispatch'd 
Phocion  my  son  to  Delphos,  there  to  seek 
Our  cause  of  sorrow  ;  but,  as  time  dragg'd  on 
Without  his  messenger's  return,  he  grew 
Impatient  of  all  counsel ;  to  his  palage 
In  awful  mood  retiring,  wildly  call'd 
The  reckless  of  his  Court  to  share  his  stores, 
And  end  all  with  him.     When  we  dared  disturb 
His  dreadful  feastings  with  a  humble  prayer 
That  he  would  meet  us,  the  poor  slave  who  bore 
The  message  flew  back  smarting  ft-om  the  scourge, 
And  mutter'd  a  decree  that  he  who  next 
Unbidden  met  the  t3a'ant's  glance  should  die. 

Age.    I  am  prepared  to  brave  it. 

Cleon.  So  am  I. 

Tim.    Aud  I. 

Ion.  O  Sages  !  —  do  not  think  my  prayer 

Bespeaks  unseemly  forwardness,  — send  me  : 
The  coarsest  reed  that  trembles  in  the  marsh, 
If  Heaven  select  it  for  its  instrument. 
May  shed  celestial  music  on  the  breeze 
As  dearly  as  the  pipe  whose  virgin  gold 
Befits  the  lip  of  Phoebus.     Ye  are  wise, 
And  needed  by  your  country  ;  ye  are  fathers : 
I  am  a  lone  stray  thing,  whose  little  life 
B}'  strangers'  bounty  cherish'd,  like  a  wave 
That  from  the  summer  sea  a  wanton  breeze 
Lifts  for  a  moment's  sparkle,  will  subside 
Light  as  it  rose,  nor  leave  a  sigh  in  breaking. 

Med.    Ion,  no  sigh  ! 

Ion.  Forgive  rae  if  I  seera'd 


ION  ;    A  TIIAGEDY.  GG5 

To  doubt  that  thou  wilt  mouru  iiio  if  I  fall ; 
Nor  would  I  tax  thy  love  with  such  a  fear ; 
But  that  high  promi)tings,  whicli  could  never  rise 
vSpoutaueous  iu  my  nature,  bid  me  plead 
Thus  boldly  for  the  mission. 

Med.  IMy  brave  boy  ! 

It  shall  be  as  thou  wilt.  I  see  thou'rt  call'd 
To  this  great  peril,  and  I  will  not  stay  thee. 
When  wilt  thou  be  prepared  to  seek  it? 

Ion.  Now. 

Only,  before  I  go,  thus,  on  my  knee 
Let  me  iu  one  word  thank  thee  for  a  life 
INIade  by  thy  love  one  cloudless  holida}' ; 
And,  O  my  more  than  father !  let  me  look 
Up  to  thy  face  as  if  indeed  a  father's, 
And  give  me  a  son's  blessing. 

Med.  Bless  thee,  son  ! 

I  should  be  marl>le  now :  let's  part  at  once. 

Ion.    If  I  should  not  return,  bless  Phocion  for  me  ; 
And,  for  Clemanthe,  may  I  speak  one  word. 
One  parting  word  with  my  fair  playfellow? 

Med.    If  thou  wouldst  have  it  so,  thou  shalt. 

Ion.  Farewell,  then  ! 

Your  pra^-ers  wait  on  my  steps  :  the  arm  of  Heaven, 
I  feel,  in  life  or  death  will  be  around  me.  \_Exil. 

Med.    O,  grant  it  be  in  life  !     Let's  to  the  sacrifice. 

\_Exeuyit. 

Scene  II.  :  An  Apartment  of  the  Temple. 

Enter  Clemanthe /oZ^owed  by  Habra. 

Clem.    Is  he  so  changed  ? 

Habra.  His  bearing  is  so  alter'd, 

That,  distant,  I  scarce  knew  him  for  himself; 
But,  looking  in  his  face,  I  felt  his  smile 
Gracious  as  ever,  though  his  sweetness  wore 
Unwonted  sorrow  in  it. 


666  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Clem.  He  will  go 

To  some  high  fortune,  and  forget  us  all, 
Reclaim'd  —  be  sure  of  it—  by  noble  parents  : 
Me  he  forgets  already  ;  for  five  days, 
Five  melanchol}-  days,  I  have  not  seen  him. 

Ilabra.    Thou  know'st  that  he  has  privilege  to  range 
Th'  infected  city  ;  and  'tis  said  he  spends 
The  hours  of  needful  rest  in  squalid  hovels 
Where  death  is  most  forsaken. 

Clem.  ^^  hy  is  this? 

Why  should  my  father,  niggard  of  the  lives 
Of  aged  men,  be  prodigal  of  youth 
So  ricli  in  glorious  prophecy  as  his? 

Ilabra.    He  comes  to  answer  for  himself.     I'll  leave  you. 

[Exit. 

Clem.    Stay  !  — Well,  my  heart  may  guard  its  secret  best 
B}'  its  own  strength. 

Enter  Ion. 

Ion.  How  fares  my  pensive  sister? 

Clem.    How  shall  I  fare  but  ill  when  the  pale  hand 
Draws  the  black  foldings  of  th'  eternal  curtain 
Closer  and  closer  round  us  ;  Phocion  absent, 
And  thou,  forsaking  all  within  thy  home. 
Wilt  risk  thj^  life  with  strangers,  in  whose  aid 
Even  thou  canst  do  but  little  ? 

Ion.  It  is  little  ; 

But,  in  these  sharp  extremities  of  fortune. 
The  blessings  which  the  weak  and  poor  can  scatter 
Have  their  own  season.     'Tis  a  little  thing 
To  give  a  cup  of  water ;  yet  its  draught 
Of  cool  refreshment,  drain'd  by  fever'd  lips, 
May  give  a  shock  of  pleasure  to  the  frame 
]\Iore  exquisite  than  when  Nectarean  juice 
Renews  the  life  of  joy  in  happiest  hours. 
It  is  a  little  thing  to  speak  a  phrase 
Of  common  comfort  wliicli  by  dail}'  use 


ION  ;    A  TRAGEDY.  667 

Has  almost  lost  its  sense  ;  yet,  on  the  ear 
Of  him  wlio  thought  to  die  unmourn'd,  'twill  fall 
Like  choicest  music  ;  fill  the  glazing  eye 
With  gentle  tears  ;  relax  the  Jcnutted  hand 
To  know  the  bonds  of  fellowship  again  ; 
And  shed  on  the  departing  soul  a  sense, 
More  precious  than  the  benison  of  friends 
About  the  honour'd  death-bed  of  the  rich, 
To  him  who  else  were  lonely,  that  another 
Of  the  great  family  is  near  and  feels. 

Clem.    O,  thou  canst  never  bear  these  mournful  offices  ! 
So  blithe,  so  merry  once  !     Will  not  the  sight 
Of  frenzied  agonies  unfix  thy  reason, 
Or  the  dumb  woe  congeal  thee  ? 

Ion.  No,  Clemauthe : 

They  are  the  patient  sorrows  that  touch  nearest ! 
If  thou  had'st  seen  the  warrior,  when  he  writhed 
In  the  last  grapple  of  his  sinewy  frame, 
With  conquering  anguish  strive  to  cast  a  smile 
(And  not  in  vain)  upon  his  fragile  wife. 
Waning  beside  him  ;  and,  his  limbs  composed, 
The  widow  of  the  moment  fix  her  gaze 
Of  longing,  speechless  love  upon  the  babe, 
The  only  living  thing  which  yet  was  hers, 
Spreading  its  arms  for  its  own  resting-place, 
Yet  with  attenuated  hand  wave  off 
Th'  uustricken  child,  and  so  embraceless  die. 
Stifling  the  mighty  hunger  of  the  heart ; 
Thou  couldst  endure  the  sight  of  selfish  grief 
In  sullenness  or  frenzy  :   but  to-da^' 
Another  lot  falls  on  me. 

Clem.  Thou  wilt  leave  us  ! 

I  read  it  plainly  in  thy  alter' d  mien  : 
Is  it  forever? 

Ion.  That  is  with  the  gods  ! 

I  go  but  to  the  palace,  urged  by  hope, 
Which  from  afar  hath  darted  on  ni}'  soul, 


668  CHOICE    READINGS. 

That  to  the  humbleness  of  one  like  me 
The  haughty  King  may  listen. 

Clem.  To  the  palace  ! 

Know'st  thou  the  peril,  nay,  the  certain  issue 
That  waits  thee  ?    Death  !  the  tyrant  has  decreed  it, 
Confirm'd  it  with  an  oath  ;  and  he  has  power 
To  keep  that  oath :  for,  hated  as  he  is, 
The  reckless  soldiers  who  partake  his  riot 
Are  swift  to  do  his  bidding. 

Ion.  I  know  all : 

But  they  who  call  me  to  the  work  can  shield  me, 
Or  make  me  strong  to  suffer. 

Clem.  Then  the  sword 

Falls  on  thy  neck  !     O  Gods  !  to  think  that  thou, 
Who  in  the  plenitude  of  youthful  life 
Art  now  before  me,  ere  the  Sun  decline. 
Perhaps  in  one  short  hour,  shalt  lie  cold,  cold, 
To  speak,  smile,  bless  no  more !     Thou  shalt  not  go! 

Ion.    Thou  must  not  stay  me,  fair  one  ;  even  thy  father 
Who  (blessings  on  him  !)  loves  me  as  his  son. 
Yields  to  the  will  of  Heaven. 

Clem.  And  he  can  do  this ! 

I  shall  not  bear  his  presence  if  thou  fall'st 
By  his  consent ;  so  shall  I  be  alone. 

Ion.    Phocion  will  soon  return,  and  juster  thoughts 
Of  thy  admiring  father  close  the  gap 
Thy  old  companion  left  behind  him. 

Clem.  Never ! 

What  will  to  me  be  father,  brother,  friends, 
When  thou  art  gone,  the  light  of  our  life  quench'd. 
Haunting  like  spectres  of  departed  joy 
The  home  where  thou  wert  dearest  ? 

Ion.  Thrill  me  not 

With  words  that,  in  their  agony,  suggest 
A  hope  too  ravishing,  or  my  head  will  swim, 
And  my  heart  faint  within  me. 

Clem.  Has  my  speech 


ION  ;    A  TRAGEDY.  009 

Such  blessed  power  ?     I  will  not  mourn  it  then, 
Though  it  hath  told  a  secret  I  had  borne 
Till  death  in  silence.     How  aflectiou  grew 
To  this,  I  know  not :  day  succeeded  day, 
Each  fraught  with  the  same  innocent  delights, 
Without  one  shock  to  ruffle  the  disguise 
Of  sisterly  regard  which  veil'd  it  well, 
Till  thy  changed  mien  reveal'd  it  to  my  soul, 
And  thy  great  peril  makes  me  bold  to  tell  it. 
Do  not  despise  it  in  me  ! 

Ion.  With  deep  joy 

Thus  I  receive  it.     Trust  me,  it  is  long 
Since  I  have  learn'd  to  tremble  'midst  our  pleasures, 
Lest  I  should  break  the  golden  dream  around  me 
With  most  ungrateful  rashness.     I  should  bless 
The  sharp  and  perilous  duty  which  hath  press'd 
A  life's  deliciousness  into  these  moments,  — 
Which  here  must  end.     I  came  to  say  farewell, 
And  the  word  must  be  said. 

Clem.  Thou  canst  not  mean  it ! 

Have  I  disclaim'd  all  maiden  bashfulness, 
To  tell  the  cherish'd  secret  of  my  soul 
To  my  soul's  master,  and  in  rich  return 
Obtain'd  the  dear  assurance  of  his  love, 
To  hear  him  speak  that  miserable  word 
[  cannot,  will  not  echo? 

Ion.  Heaven  has  call'd  me, 

And  I  have  pledged  my  honour.     When  thy  heart 
Bestow'd  its  preference  on  a  friendless  boy, 
Thou  didst  not  image  him  a  recreant ;  nor 
Must  he  prove  so,  hy  thy  election  crown'd. 
Thou  hast  endow'd  me  with  a  right  to  claim 
Thy  help  through  this  our  journey,  be  its  course 
Lengthen'd  to  age,  or  in  an  hour  to  end ; 
And  now  I  ask  it !  bid  my  courage  hold, 
And  with  thy  free  approval  send  me  forth 
In  soul  apparell'd  for  my  ofhce  i 


670  CHOICE    READINGS* 

Clem.  Go ! 

I  would  not  have  thee  other  than  thou  art, 
Living  or  dying  ;  and,  if  thou  shouldst  fall,  — 

Ion.    Be  sure  I  shall  return. 

Clem.  If  thou  shouldst  fall, 

I  shall  be  happier  as  th'  affianced  bride 
Of  thy  cold  ashes,  than  in  the  proudest  fortunes. 
Thine,  —  ever  thine  —  [^She  faints  in  his  arms 

Ion.    {^Calls."]  Habra !  —  So  best  to  part.  — 

Enter  Habra. 

Let  her  have  air  ;  be  near  her  through  the  day  ; 
I  know  thy  tenderness :  should  ill  news  come 
Of  any  friend,  she  will  require  it  all. — 

[Habra  bears  Clemanthe  out. 
Ye  Gods,  that  have  enrich'd  the  life  ye  claim 
With  priceless  treasure,  strengthen  me  to  yield  it !        [_Exit. 


DON  OAELOS. 

Translated  by  BoylaN. 


Act  hi.     Scene  IX. 

Characters  :  Philip  the  Second,  Khuj  of  Spain.,  and  the 
Marquess  de  Posa.  The  King,  having  heard  that  of  Posa 
ivhich  made  him  curious  to  see  and  study  the  man,  face  to 
face,  has  had  him  summoned  to  an  intervieio. 

Scene  :   The  King's  Cabinet. 

The  Marquess  alone. 

Marq.    How  came  I  here?     Is  it  caprice  or  chance 
That  shows  me  now  my  image  in  this  mirror? 
Why,  out  of  millions,  should  it  picture  me, — 
The  most  unlikely, — and  present  my  form 


DON    CARLOS.  671 

To  the  King's  meraorj'  ?     "Was  this  but  chance  ? 
Perhaps  'twas  something  more  !     What  else  is  chance 
But  the  rude  stone  which  from  the  sculptor's  hand 
Receives  its  life?     Chance  comes  from  Providence, 
And  man  must  mould  it  to  his  own  designs. 
AVhat  the  King  wants  with  me  but  little  matters ; 
I  know  the  business  I  shall  have  with  him. 
Were  but  one  spark  of  truth  with  boldness  flung 
Into  the  despot's  soul,  how  fruitful  'twere 
In  the  kind  hand  of  Providence  !  and  so 
What  first  appear'd  capricious  act  of  chance, 
INIay  be  designed  for  some  momentous  eud. 
Wliate'er  it  be,  I'll  act  on  this  belief. 

Enter  the  King. 

[77ie  Marquess,  as  soon  as  he  sees  the  King,  comes  for- 
ward and  sinks  on  one  knee;  then  rises  and  remains 
standing  before  him. 

King.    We've  met  before,  then? 

Marq.  No. 

King.  You  did  my  Crown 

Some  service  :  why,  then,  do  j^ou  shun  my  thanks? 
My  memory  is  throug'd  with  suitors'  claims  : 
One  only  is  Omniscient.     'Twas  your  duty 
To  seek  ^^our  monarch's  eye  !     Why  did  you  not? 

Marq.    Two  days  have  scarce  elapsed  since  my  return 
From  foreign  travel,  Sire. 

King.  I  would  not  stand 

Indebted  to  a  subject :  ask  some  favour. 

Marq.    I  enjoj'  the  laws. 

King.  So  does  the  murderer  I 

Marq.    Then  how  much  more  the  honest  citizen ! 
My  lot  contents  me.  Sire. 

King.   \_Aside.~\  By  Heavens,  a  proud 

And  dauntless  mind !     That  was  to  be  expected. 
Proud  I  would  have  my  Spaniards  ;  better  far 


672  CHOICE    READINGS. 

The  cup  should  overflow  than  not  be  full. — 
They  say  you've  left  my  service. 

Marq.  To  make  way 

For  some  one  worthier,  I  withdrew. 

King.  'Tis  pity  : 

When  spirits  such  as  yours  make  holiday, 
The  State  must  suffer.     But  perchance  you  fear'd 
To  miss  the  post  best  suited  to  your  merits. 

Marq.    O  no !     I  doubt  not  the  experienced  judge, 
In  human  nature  skill'd,  —  his  proper  study,  — 
Will  have  discover'd  at  a  glance  wherein 
I  may  be  useful  to  him,  wherein  not. 
With  deepest  gratitude,  I  feel  the  favour 
Wherewith,  by  so  exalted  an  opinion, 
Your  Majesty  is  loading  me  ;  and  yet  —  [5e  pauses 

King.   You  hesitate? 

Marq.  I  am,  I  must  confess. 

Sire,  at  this  moment  unprepared  to  clothe 
My  thoughts,  as  the  world's  citizen,  in  phrase 
Beseeming  to  your  subject.     When  I  left 
The  Court  for  ever.  Sire,  I  deem'd  myself 
Released  from  the  necessity'  to  give 
My  reasons  for  this  step. 

King.  Are  they  so  weak? 

What  do  you  fear  to  risk  by  their  disclosure  ? 

Marq.   My  life  at  farthest.  Sire,  were  time  allow'd 
For  me  to  wear^'  you  ;  but,  this  denied. 
Then  truth  itself  must  suffer.     I  must  choose 
'Twixt  your  displeasure  and  contempt ;  and,  if 
I  must  decide,  I  rather  would  appear 
Worthy  of  punishment  than  pity. 

King.  Well? 

Marq.    I  cannot  be  the  servant  of  a  prince. 

\_The  King  loolxs  at  him  tvith  astonishment, 
I  will  not  cheat  the  buyer.     Should  you  deem 
Me  worthy  of  your  service,  you  prescribe 
A  course  of  duty  for  me ;  you  command 


DON   CARLOS.  673 

My  arm  in  battle  and  my  head  in  council : 

Then,  not  my  actions,  but  th'  applause  they  meet 

At  Com't  becomes  their  object.     But,  for  me, 

Virtue  possesses  an  intrinsic  worth : 

I  would  myself  create  that  happiness 

A  monarch,  with  my  hand,  would  seek  to  plant; 

And  duty's  task  would  prove  an  inward  joy. 

And  be  my  willing  choice.     Saj',  like  you  this? 

And,  in  your  own  creation,  could  you  bear 

A  new  creator?     For  I  ne'er  could  stoop 

To  be  the  chisel,  where  I  fain  would  be 

The  sculptor's  self.     I  dearly  love  mankind. 

My  Gracious  Liege,  but  in  a  monarchy, 

I  dare  not  love  another  than  myself. 

King.   This  ardour  is  most  laudable.     You  wish 
To  do  good  deeds  to  others ;  how  you  do  them, 
Is  but  of  small  account  to  patriots. 
Or  to  the  wise.     Choose,  then,  within  these  realms 
The  office  where  you  best  may  satisfy 
The  noble  impulse. 

Marq.  'Tis  not  to  be  found. 

King.   How ! 

Marq.  What  your  Majest}-  would  spread  abroad, 

Through  these  my  hands,  is  it  the  good  of  men  ? 
Is  it  the  happiness  that  my  pure  love 
"Would  to  mankind  impart?     Before  such  bliss 
Monarchs  would  tremble.     No  !    Court  policy 
Has  raised  up  new  enjoyments  for  mankind. 
Which  she  is  always  rich  enough  to  grant ; 
And  wakeu'd,  in  the  hearts  of  men,  new  wishes 
Which  such  enjoyments  onl}'  can  content. 
In  her  own  mint  she  coins  the  truth,  —  such  truth 
As  she  herself  can  tolerate !  all  forms 
Unlike  her  own  are  broken.     But  is  tliat 
Which  can  content  the  Court  enough  for  me? 
Must  my  affection  for  my  brother  pledge 
Itself  to  work  my  brother  injury  ? 


674  CHOICE    READINGS. 

To  call  him  happy,  when  he  dare  not  think  ? 
Sire,  choose  not  me,  to  spread  the  happiness 
Which  30U  have  stamp'd  for  us  :  I  must  decline 
To  circulate  such  coin.     I  cannot  be 
The  servant  of  a  prince. 

King.  You  are,  perhaps, 

A  Protestant? 

Marq.  Our  creeds,  my  liege,  are  one.  {^A  pause, 

I  am  misunderstood :  I  fear'd  as  much. 
You  see  the  veil  torn  by  my  liand  aside 
From  all  the  mysteries  of  Majesty. 
Who  can  assure  you  I  shall  still  regard 
As  sacred  that  which  ceases  to  alarm  me? 
I  ma}-  seem  dangerous,  because  I  think 
Above  myself.     I  am  not  so,  my  Liege  ; 
My  wishes  lie  corroding  here.     \_Layi7\g  his  hand  on  his  breast. 

The  rage 
For  innovation,  which  but  serves  t'  increase 
The  heavy  weight  of  chains  it  cannot  break, 
Shall  never  fire  my  blood  !     The  world  is  yet 
Unripe  for  my  Ideal ;  and  I  live 
A  citizen  of  ages  yet  to  come. 
But  does  a  fancied  picture  lireak  your  rest? 
A  breath  of  3'ours  destroys  it. 

King.  Sa^-,  am  I 

The  first  to  wdiom  your  views  are  known  ? 

Marq.  You  are. 

King.   \_Aside.'\   This  tone,  at  least,  is  new  ;  but  flattery 
Exhausts  itself  ;  and  men  of  talent  still 
Disdain  to  imitate  :  so  let  us  test 
Its  opposite  for  once.     Why  should  I  not? 
There  is  a  charm  in  novelty.  —  Should  we 
Be  so  agreed,  I  will  bethink  me  now 
Of  some  new  State  emploA'ment,  in  whose  duties 
Your  powerful  mind  — 

Marq.  Sire.  I  perceive  how  small, 

How  mean,  your  notions  are  of  manly  worth, 


DON   CARLOS.  675 

Suspecting,  in  an  honest  man's  discourse, 

Nought  but  a  flatterer's  artifice  :  incthinks 
I  can  cxi)lain  tlie  cause  of  this  your  error. 
Mankind  compel  you  to  it :  with  free  choice 
They  have  disclaim'd  their  true  nobility, 
Lower'd  themselves  to  their  degraded  state. 
Before  man's  inward  worth,  as  from  a  phantom, 
They  fly  in  terror,  and,  contented  with 
Their  poverty,  they  ornament  their  chains 
Witli  slavish  prudence,  and  they  call  it  virtue, 
To  bear  them  with  a  show  of  I'esignation. 
Thus  did  you  find  the  world,  and  thus  it  was 
B}-  your  great  father  handed  o'er  to  jou. 
In  this  debased  condition,  how  could  you 
Respect  mankind  ? 

King.  Your  words  contain  some  truth. 

Marq.    Alas,  that,  when  from  the  Creator's  hand 
You  took  mankind,  and  moulded  him  to  suit 
Your  own  ideas,  making  yourself  the  god 
Of  this  new  creature,  you  should  overlook 
That  you  yourself  remained  a  human  being, 
A  very  man,  as  fi'om  God's  hands  you  came  ! 
Still  did  you  feel  a  mortal's  wants  and  pains  ; 
You  needed  sympathy  ;  but  to  a  God 
One  can  but  sacrifice,  and  pray,  and  tremble. 
"Wretched  exchange  !  Perversion  most  unblest 
Of  sacred  nature  !     Once  degrade  mankind. 
And  make  him  but  a  thing  to  play  upon, 
AYho  then  can  share  the  harmony  with  you  ? 

King.    [^Aside.']    Hy  Heaven,  he  moves  me  ! 

Marq.  But  this  sacrifice 

To  you  is  valueless.     You  thus  become 
A  thing  apart,  a  species  of  your  own  : 
This  is  the  price  you  pay  for  being  a  god ! 
'Twere  dreadful  were  it  not  so,  and  if  you 
Gain'd  nothing  by  the  misery  of  millions 
As  if  the  very  freedom  you  destroy'd 


676  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Were  the  sole  blessiug  that  could  make  you  happy ! 
Dismiss  me,  Sire,  I  pray  you  ;  for  my  theme 
Bears  me  too  far ;  my  heart  is  full ;  too  strong 
The  charm,  to  stand  before  the  only  man 
To  whom  I  may  reveal  it. 

King.  Nay,  continue. 

Marq.    I  feel,  Sire,  all  the  worth —  \^He  pauses. 

King.  Proceed ;  30U  had 

Yet  more  to  say  to  me. 

Marq.  Your  Majesty, 

1  lately  pass'd  through  Flanders  and  Bi'abant, 
So  many  rich  and  blooming  provinces, 
Fill'd  with  a  valiant,  great,  and  honest  people. 
To  be  the  father  of  a  race  like  this 
I  thought  must  be  divine  indeed  !  and  then 
I  stumbled  on  a  heap  of  burnt  men's  bones  ! 

\_He  stops,  and  fixes  a  penetrating  look  on  the  King. 
True,  you  are  forced  to  act  so ;  but  that  you 
Could  dare  fulfil  your  task,  this  fills  m}'  soul 
With  shuddering  horror  !     O,  'tis  pity  that 
The  Victim,  weltering  in  his  blood,  must  cease 
To  chant  the  praises  of  his  sacrificer  ! 
And  that  mere  men  —  not  beings  loftier  far  — 
Should  write  the  history  of  the  world.     But  soon 
A  milder  age  will  follow  that  of  Philip, 
An  age  of  truer  wisdom :  hand  in  hand, 
The  subjects'  welfare  and  the  Sovereign's  greatness 
Will  walk  in  union.     Then  the  careful  State 
Will  spare  her  children,  and  necessity 
No  longer  glory  to  be  thus  inhuman. 

King.    When,  think  3'ou,  would  that  blessed  age  arrive. 
If  I  had  shrunk  before  the  curse  of  this  ? 
Behold  my  Spain  ;  see  here  the  burgher's  good 
Blooms  in  eternal  and  unclouded  peace. 
A  peace  like  this  will  I  bestow  on  Flanders. 

Marq.    The  churchyard's  peace  !    And  do  you  hope  to  end 
What  you  have  now  begun?     Say,  do  you  hope 


DON   CABLOS.  677 

To  check  the  ripening  change  of  Christendom, 

The  universal  Spring,  that  shall  renew 

The  Earth's  fair  form?     Would  you  alone,  in  Europe, 

Fling  yourself  down  before  the  rapid  wheel 

Of  destiny,  which  rolls  its  ceaseless  course, 

And  seize  its  spokes  with  human  arm  ?     Vain  thought  J 

Already  thousands  have  your  kingdom  fled 

In  joyful  povert}' :  the  honest  burgher, 

For  his  faith  exiled,  was  your  noblest  subject. 

See,  with  a  mother's  arms,  E^lizabeth 

"Welcomes  the  fugitives,  and  Britain  blooms 

In  rich  luxuriance  from  our  country's  arts. 

Bereft  of  the  new  Christian's  industry, 

Grenada  lies  forsaken,  and  all  Europe, 

Exulting,  sees  its  foe  oppress'd  with  wounds. 

By  its  own  hands  inflicted  !     You  would  plant 

For  all  eternit}- ;  and  3'et  the  seeds 

You  sow  around  you  are  the  seeds  of  death  ! 

This  hopeless  task,  with  Nature's  laws  at  strife, 

AVill  ne'er  survive  the  spirit  of  its  founder. 

You  labour  for  ingratitude  in  vain  ; 

"With  Nature  you  engage  in  desperate  struggle ; 

In  vain  you  waste  your  high  and  royal  life 

In  projects  of  destruction.     Man  is  greater 

Than  you  esteem  him :  he  will  burst  the  chains 

Of  a  long  slumber,  and  reclaim  once  more 

Ilis  just  and  hallow'd  rights.     "With  Nero's  name, 

And  fell  Busiris',  will  he  couple  3'ours  : 

And  —  ah  !  you  once  deserved  a  better  fate. 

King.  ^How  know  you  that? 

Marq.  In  very  truth  you  did,  —-=■ 

Yes,  I  repeat  it,  —  by  the  Almighty  power! 
Restore  us  all  you  have  deprived  us  of, 
And,  generous  as  strong,  let  happiness 
Flow  from  30ur  horn  of  plenty  ;  let  man's  mind 
Ripen  in  your  vast  empire  ;  give  us  back 
All  you  have  taken  from  us  \  and  become 


678  CHOICE    READINGS. 

Amidst  a  thousand  kings,  a  king  indeed  ! 

O,  that  the  eloquence  of  all  those  myriads 

Whose  fate  depends  on  this  momentous  hour 

Could  hover  on  my  lips,  and  fan  the  spark 

That  lights  thine  eye  into  a  glorious  flame  I 

Renounce  the  mimicry  of  godlike  powers 

Which  levels  us  to  nothing ;  be,  in  truth. 

An  image  of  the  Deity  himself! 

Never  did  mortal  man  possess  so  much. 

For  purpose  so  divine.     The  kings  of  Europe 

Pay  homage  to  the  name  of  Spain  :  be  you 

The  leader  of  these  kings  :  one  pen-stroke  now, 

One  motion  of  your  hand,  can  new  create 

The  Earth  !  but  grant  us  liberty  of  thought. 

[^Casts  himself  at  his  feet 
King.    Enthusiast  most  strange  !  arise  ;  but  I  — 
Marq.    Look  round  on  all  the  glorious  face  of  Nature  : 

On  freedom  it  is  founded ;  see  how  rich, 

Through  freedom,  it  has  grown.     The  great  Creator 

Bestows  upon  the  worm  its  drop  of  dew, 

And  gives  free-will  a  triumph  in  abodes 

Where  lone  con-uption  reigns.     See  your  creation, 

How  small,  how  poor !     The  rustling  of  a  leaf 

Alarms  the  powerful  lord  of  Christendom  : 

Each  virtue  makes  you  quake  with  fear ;  while  He, 

Rather  than  mar  blest  freedom's  sacred  rule, 

Lets  evil  blemish  and  untune  His  order. 

Th'  Almighty  works  through  universal  laws, 

Himself  unseen  :  the  sceptic,  seeing  these. 

And  owning  nought  beyond  his  vision,  asks,  » 

"  Wherefore  a  God?  the  world  goes  of  itself. 

It  needs  no  God."     And  ne'er  did  Christian  worship 

More  praise  Him  than  this  scoffer's  blasphemy. 
King.    And  will  you  undertake  to  raise  up  this 

Exalted  standard  of  weak  human  nature 

In  my  dominions? 


DON   CARLOS.  679 

Marq.  Yon  can  do  it,  Sire  ! 

Who  else?     Devote  to  your  own  people's  bliss 
The  kingly*  power,  which  has  too  long  enrich'd 
The  greatness  of  the  throne  alone  :  restore 
The  prostrate  dignit}'  of  human  nature  ; 
And  let  the  subject  be,  what  once  he  was, 
Tiie  end  and  object  of  the  monarch's  care, 
Bound  b}'  no  duty  save  a  brother's  love. 
And,  when  mankind  is  to  itself  restored, 
Roused  to  a  sense  of  its  own  innate  worth  ; 
AVhen  freedom's  lofty  virtues  proudly  flourish ; 
Then,  Sire,  when  you  have  made  your  own  wide  realms 
The  happiest  in  the  world,  it  then  may  be 
Your  duty  to  subdue  the  Universe. 

King.    I've  heard  you  to  the  end :  far  differently, 
I  find,  than  in  the  minds  of  other  men 
The  world  exists  in  yours.     And  you  shall  not 
By  foreign  laws  be  judged ;  I  am  the  first 
To  whom  you  have  your  secret  self  disclosed ; 
I  know  it,  so  believe  it.     For  the  sake 
Of  this  forbearance,  —  that  you  have  till  now 
Conceal'd  these  sentiments,  although  embraced 
With  so  much  ardour,  —  for  this  cautious  prudence, 
I  will  forget,  young  man,  that  I  have  learn'd  them, 
And  how  I  learn'd  them.     Rise  !  I  will  confute 
Your  youthful  dreams  by  my  matured  experience, 
Not  by  m}^  power  as  king  :  such  is  my  will ; 
And  therefore  act  I  thus.     Poison  itself 
May,  in  a  worthy  nature,  be  transform'd 
To  some  benignant  use.     But,  Sir,  beware 
My  Inquisition  !     'Twould  afflict  me  much  — 

3[arq.    Indeed ! 

King.    \_Aside.'\    Ne'er  met  I  such  a  man  as  this  !  - 
No,  Marquess,  no  !  you  wrong  me  !     Not  to  you 
Will  I  become  a  Nero,  —  not  to  you  ! 
All  happiness  shall  not  be  blasted  round  me  ; 


680  CHOICE   READINGS. 

And  you,  at  least,  beneath  my  very  e^es 
May  dare  continue  still  to  be  a  man. 

Marq.    And,  Sire  !  m}'  fellow  subjects?     Not  for  me, 
Nor  my  own  cause,  I  pleaded.     Sire,  j'our  subjects — • 

King.    Nay,  if  you  know  so  well  how  future  times 
Will  judge  me,  let  them  learn  at  least  from  3-ou 
That,  when  I  found  a  man,  I  could  respect  him. 

Marq.    O,  let  not  the  most  just  of  kings  at  once 
Be  the  most  unjust !     In  your  realm  of  Flanders 
There  are  a  thousand  better  men  than  I. 
But  3'ou,  —  Sire,  may  I  dare  to  say  so  much?  — 
For  the  first  time  perhaps,  see  liberty 
In  milder  form  portray'd. 

King.  No  moi'e  of  this. 

Young  man  !  you  would,  I  know,  think  otherwise 
Had  you  but  learn'd  to  understand  mankind 
As  I.     But,  truly,  I  would  not  this  meeting 
Should  prove  our  last.     How  can  I  hope  to  win  you  ? 

Marq.    Praj^  leave  me  as  I  am.     AVhat  value.  Sire, 
Should  I  be  to  you,  were  you  to  corrupt  me? 

King.    This  pride  I  will  not  bear.     From  this  day  forth 
I  hold  you  in  my  service.     No  remonstrance. 
For  I  will  have  it  so.     But  how  is  this  ? 
What  would  I  now  ?     Was  it  not  truth  I  wish'd  ? 
But  here  is  something  more.     Marquess,  so  far 
You've  learn'd  to  know  me  as  a  King  ;  but  yet 
You  know  me  not  as  man.     Just  such  a  man 
As  you  I  long  have  wish'd  for :  you  are  kind. 
Cheerful,  and  deeply  versed  in  human  nature ; 
Therefore  I've  chosen  3'Ou  — 

Marq.   [^Surprised  and  alai-^ned.^    Me,  Sire  ! 

King.  You  stand 

Before  your  King  and  ask  no  special  favour,  — 
For  yourself  nothing  !  —  that  is  new  to  me  ; 
You  will  be  just ;  ne'er  weakly  swayed  by  passion. 
Retire.  [^Exit  the  Marquess. 


INDEXES. 


I.    INDEX  TO   SCENES   FROM   SHAKESPEARE-. 

[In  this  Index,  we  have  endeavoured  to  collect  and  arrange  for  convenient 
reference  those  scenes  which  are  hest  suited  to  public  readings,  and  whicli 
will  give  the  cleai-est  idea  of  the  dominant  characters  and  dramatic  situa- 
tions of  the  plays.  The  scenes  embrace  all  the  varieties  of  matter  and  i^ur- 
pose  as  discriminated  in  the  table  of  contents,  but  no  attempt  is  made  to 
range  them  mider  characteristic  headings;  though  the  cast  and  spirit  of 
each  scene  are  meant  to  be  indicated  by  the  statement  here  given  of  its 
special  subject. — For  the  sake  of  convenience  in  the  class-room  and  the 
social  circle,  and  also  because  a  standard  edition  with  expurgated  text  is 
highly  desirable  for  such  use,  the  references  here  made  are  to  the  Rev. 
H.  X.  Hudson's  series  of  "Annotated  English  Classics,"  as  far  as  that 
series  extends,  and  to  his  Harvard  Edition  of  Shakespeare  for  the  rest  of 
the  plays.] 

ANTONY   AND    CLEOPATRA. 

Act  I.  Scene  1.  Antony,  fascinated  out  of  his  senses  by  Cleo- 
patra, makes  i)rotestations  of  love  to  her.  From  "  Cleo.  If 
it  be  love  indeed,  tell  me  how  much,"  to  "Ant.  Come,  my 

Queen." Pages  38-40 

I.  3.    Cleopatra  accuses  Antony  of  feigning  love  for  effect,  and 

banters  him  with  consummate  art 48-54 

II.  2.  Meeting  and  reconciliation  of  the  Triumvirs.  From 
"Ccesar.  Welcome  to  Rome,"  to  "  Lep.  Noble  Antony,  not 
sickness  should  detain  me." 00-73 

III.  2.    The  betrothal  of  Antony  and  Octavia.     From  "  Ant.  No 

f urtlier,  sir." 104-100 

III.  3.   Cleopatra's  jealous  inquiries  concerning  Octavia  ......  100-109 

III.  4.   Antony  complains  of  ill-usage  from  Cajsar 109-111 

IV.  14.   Antony,  overcome  by  shame  and  vexation,  falls  on  his 

own  sword.     To  "  Ant.  O,  dispatch  me  !  " 100-105 

IV.  15.   Antony  dies  in  Cleopatra's  arms.     From  "  Cleo.   O  Smi, 

burn  the  great  sphere  thou  movest  in  !  " 108-172 

V  2.  Cleopatra,  rather  tlian  be  carried  a  captive  to  Rome,  jjuts 
an  end  to  her  own  life.  From  "  Ccesar.  Which  is  the  Queen 
of  Egypt? "  to  "  Char.  I'll  mend  it,  and  then  play  ." 184-195 


682  INDEXES. 

AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

I.  3.  Duke  Frederick  in  a  rage  banishes  his  niece  Rosalind  . . .  .47-52 
II.  7.  Jaques'  paroxysms  of  mirth  and  laughter  at  having  seen 
"  a  motley  Fool,"  and  his  description  of  the  seven  ages  of 
man.  From  "  Jaq.  A  Fool,  a  Fool !  —  I  met  a  Fool  i'  the 
forest,"  to  "  Jaq.  Sans  teeth,  sans  eyes,  sans  taste,  sans  every 
thing." 69-75 

III.  2.   "  Caparisoned   like   a   man,"  without   the  "  doublet    and 

hose  in  her  disposition,"  the  witty  Rosalind  chides  Orlando 
for  loving,  and  proposes  to  cure  him.  From  "  Cel.  Didst 
thou  hear  these  verses  1" 85-94 

IV.  1.   Orlando's  wooing.     From  "  Orl.   Good  day  and  happiness, 

dear  Rosalind  !  " 108-114 


CORIOLANUS. 

I.  3.   Volumnia,  the  typical  Roman  mother,  reproves  Virgilia, 

the  wife  of  her  son 51-55 

IV.  1.   Coriolanus  takes  leave  of  his  mother,  wife,  and  friends, 

and  joins  the  Volscians  in  war  against  the  Romans 135-138 

IV.  2.   Volumnia's  sarcastic  rebuke  of  the  Tribunes.    From  "  Vol. 

O,  ye're  well  met :  the  hoarded  plagues  o'  the  gods  requite 

your  love!  " 139-141 

V.  3.   The  mother,  wife,  and  child  of  Coriolanus  implore  him  to 

save  Rome,  and  finally  prevail  with  him 172-180 

V.  4.    Aufidius  and  the  Volscians  accuse  Coriolanus  of  treason, 

then  set  upon  him  and  kill  him.     From  "  Cor.  Hail,  lords ! 

I  am  return'd  your  soldier,"  to  "  Auf.  Insolent  villain  !  ".  .187-189 


CYMBELINE. 

I.  1.  Cymbeline,  incensed  at  the  marriage  of  his  daughter  Imo- 
gen with  Posthumus,  banishes  him.      From  "  Queen.  No,  be 

assured  you  shall  not  find  me." 51-5G 

II.  3.   Imogen's  indignation  at  Cloten  for  slandering  Posthumus. 

From"  Clo.  Good  morrow, fairest :  sister, your  sweet  hand.". 89-92 

III.  4.   Imogen  accused  of  being  false  to  her  husband 113-122 

IV.  2.   The  death  of  Cloten.      Imogen's  grief  in  mistaking  him 

for  Posthumus 135-155 

V.  5.  Cymbeline  is  informed  of  his  wife's  treachery  and  death. 
Imogen  makes  herself  known  to  the  King  and  to  her  hus- 
band.    To  "  Imo.  Your  blessing,  sir." 176-188 


SCENES    FROM    SHAKESPEARE.  683 

HAMLET. 

I.  2.  Hamlet's  anguish  at  the  death  of  his  father,  his  mother's 
shameful  disrespect  to  the  memory  of  his  father,  and  his 
suri)rise  on  learning  of  the  appearance  of  his  father's  ghost. 
From  "  Ham.  0,  that  this  too-too  solid  flesh  would  melt."  .  .62-68 
I.  4.  The  platform  scene.  Hamlet's  surprise  and  awe  when 
the  Ghost  first  appears  to  him.  His  determination  to  follow 
and  question  it.  To  "Ilam.  I  say,  away!  —  Go  on;  I'll  follow 
thee."    Omit  the  twenty-two  lines,  from  "  This  heavy-headed 

revel "  to  "  To  his  own  scandal." 75-80 

I.  5.   The  Ghost  reveals  to  Hamlet  the  crime  of  Claudius.     To 

"  Ham.  I  have  sworn  't." 80-86 

II.  2.  Hamlet  reviles  and  storms  at  liimself  for  not  killing  Clau- 
dius.    From  "  Ham.  Now  I  am  alone." 121-124 

ni.  1.  Hamlet's  soliloquy  on  death,  and  his  dialogue  with  Ophe- 
lia. From  "  Ham.  To  be,  or  not  to  be,"  to  "  Ophe.  T'  have 
seen  what  I  have  seen,  see  what  I  see  ! " 127-132 

III.  2.    Hamlet's  advice  to  the  players,  his  friendship  for  Horatio, 
and  his  artful  refusal  to  be  entrapped  by  the  King's  spies. 
To  "Ham.  I  will  speak  daggers  to  her,  but  use  none.". . .  .133-151 
Omit  all  after  "  I  must  be  idle  ;  get  you  a  place,"  to  "  Come, 
some  music !  " 137-147 

III.  4.   The  closet  scene.      Hamlet's  interview  with  his  mother; 

the  death  of  Polonius ;  the  re-appearance  of  the  Ghost.     To 

"  Ham.  Thus  bad  begins,  and  worse  remains  uehind." 156-165 

Omit  the  lines  beginning  "  That  monster,  custom,"  and  end- 
ing "  With  wondrous  potency." 164 

IV.  2.   Ophelia's  madness.     To  "  King.  It  springs  all  from  her 

father's  death.". 177-180 

V.  1.    The  grave-digging  scene.     Colloquy  of  the    two  Clowns ; 

Hamlet's  talk  with  one  of  them  ;  and  the  burial  of  Ophelia. 

To  "  The  cat  will  mew,  the  dog  will  have  his  day." 199-211 

V.  2.  The  catastrophe.  Death  of  tlie  Queen  ;  Laertes  falls,  and 
makes  known  his  treacherous  plotting  with  the  King  against 
Hamlet's  life ;  Hamlet  kills  Claudius,  forgives  Laertes,  and 
dies.  From  "  King.  Come,  Hamlet,  come,  and  take  this 
hand,"  to  "  Hor.  And  flights  of  angels  sing  thee  to  thy 
rest!" 224-230 

KING   HENRY   THE  FOURTH,    PART   FIRST. 

I.  2.   Prince  Henry  and  Pointz  lay  plans  by  which  they  may 

have  some  merriment  at  the  expense  of  Falstaff 59-69 


684  INDEXES. 

I.  3.   The  anger  of  Hotspur  when  the  King  demands  his  pris- 
oners, and  forbids  him  to  speak  the  name  of  Mortimer. . . .  .69-82 
II.  2.   Prince  Henry  and  Pointz  in  disguise  fall  upon  Falstaff  and 

rob  him  of  the  booty  which  he  has  taken  from  the  travellers,  88-93 

II.  4.    Merriment  of  Prince  Henry  and  Pointz  over  Falstaff's  boast- 

ing.   Prom  "Pointz.  Welcome,  Jack :  where  hast  thou  been?  " 

to  "  Fal.  Ah,  no  more  of  that,  Hal,  and  thou  lovest  me!"  103-109 

III.  1.  Hotspur's  impatience  when  Glendower  boasts  that  he  is 
"  not  in  the  roll  of  common  men,"  and  that  he  can  command 
the  Devil.  To  "  Hot.  Here  come  our  wives,  and  let  us  take 
our  leave." 121-128 

III.  2.    King  Henry  reproving  the  Prince  for  his  riotous  courses, 

and  the  Prince  vowing  amendment  of  life 132-140 

III.  3.   Falstaff,  having  had  his  pockets  picked  at  the  tavern  by 

Prince  Henry,  accuses  the  Hostess  of  dishonesty.  Prince 
Henry  acknowledges  the  theft,  and  Falstaff  "  forgives  "  the 
Hostess 140-149 

IV.  2.   Falstaff's  comical  description  of  his  ragged  and  pitiful- 

looking  soldiers,  which  he  dubs  his  "tattered  prodigals.".  156-159 
V.  4.  Scene  on  the  battle-field.  Falstaff,  in  his  fight  with  Doug- 
las, falls  and  feigns  death.  Hotspur  is  slain  by  Prince  Hemy. 
When  left  alone,  Falstaff  rises.  His  soliloquy  on  life  and 
death.  From  "  Hot.  If  I  mistake  not,  thou  art  Harry  Mon- 
mouth."   182-186 

KING  HENRY  THE  FOURTH,  PART  SECOND. 

I.  2.   Colloquy  between  the  Chief  Justice  and  Falstaff.     From 

"  Ch.  Justice.  What's  he  that  goes  there  ?  " 68-75 

II.  2.   Prince   Henry   receives   a   letter    from    Falstaff.      From 

"  Pointz.  By  the  Mass,  here  comes  Bardolph." 89-93 

II.  3.   Lady  Northumberland  and  Lady  Percy  plead  with  North- 
umberland not  to  go  to  the  wars 93-96 

IV.  3.   Falstaff  claims  the  honour  of  taking  Coleville  prisoner.  144-149 
IV.  5.   The  dying  King's  deep  but  kind  rebuke  of  Prince  Henry, 
and  the  penitence  of  the  Prince.      From  "  Prince.  I  never 
thought  to  hear  you  speak  again." 159-164 

KING   HENRY   THE  FIFTH. 

III.  1.    King  Henry's  address  to  his  troops.      To  "King.  Cry  God 

for  Harry,  England,  and  Saint  George  !" 84-85 

IV.  9.   Fluellen  persuades  Pistol  to  eat  the  leek,  and  Pistol  de- 

pistolizes  himself 152-155 


SCENES    FUOM    SHAKESPEARE.  685 

V.  1.  Henry  wooing  the  Princess  Catharine.  From  "  King  Hen. 
Fair  Catharine,  and  most  fair!"  to  "K.  IJenrij.  I  am  con- 
tent."  161-169 

KING   HENRY   THE   EIGHTH. 

II.  4.    Catharine  earnestly  pleads  for  justice  at  the  hands  of  the 

King.     From  "  Cath.  Sir,  I  desire  you  do  me  right  and  jus- 
tice," to  "  In  any  of  their  courts." 95-100 

III.  1.  Catharine's  indignation  at  the  proposal  by  ambassadors 
that  she  admit  the  justice  of  the  divorce.  "Nothing  but 
death  shall  e'er  divorce  my  dignities."  From  "  Cath.  How 
now !  " 100-112 

III.  2.    Wolsey's  downfall  and  depression.    From  "  Wol.  Farewell, 

a  long  farewell,  to  all  my  greatness  ! " 129-133 

IV.  2.   The  death  of  Queen  Catharine 140-148 

JULIUS   C^SAR. 
I.  2.    The  scheming  Cassius  instigates  Brutus  to  join  in  a  con- 
spiracy  against   Cassar.      From    "  Brn.    What    means    this 
shouting  ?  "  to  "  Cass.  As  easily  as  a  king ! " 49-53 

II.  1.   Portia's  anxious  appeal  to  learn  the  cause  of  Brutus'  ab- 

straction. From  "  Portia.  Brutus,  my  lord  !  "  to  "  Bru.  And 
by-and-by  thy  bosom  shall  partake  the  secrets  of  my  heart."  85-8£ 
ril.  1.  Antony's  wily  dissimulation  in  the  presence  of  the  assas- 
sins when  they  "  render  him  their  bloody  hands."  His 
mourning  over  die  dead  body  of  Cassar.  From  "  Bru.  But 
here  comes  Antony.  —  Welcome,  Mark  Antony,"  to  "Ant. 
With  carrion  men  groaning  for  burial." 110-116 

III.  2.    The   orations  of   Brutus   and   Antony  over  the  body  of 

Caesar.     From  "  Bru.  Be  patient  till  the  last,"  to  "  Ant.  Take 
thou  what  course  thou  wilt !  " 117-129 

IV.  3.   The  quarrel  of  Brutus  and  Cassius.     To  "  Bru.  He'll  think 

your  mother  chides  and  leave  you  so." 137-143 

KING   JOHN. 

III.  1.  Lady  Constance's  extreme  surprise  and  contempt  for  the 

marriage  of  Louis  and  Blanch.     She  gives  expression  to  her 
distress   in   the    most   stinging  and   bitter  reproaches.     To 
"  Const.  And  hang  a  calf's  skin  on  those  recreant  limbs.".  .74—79 
Omit  the  seven  lines  beginning  "  Or,  if  it  must  stand  still.".        78 
III.  4.    The  grief  of  Constance  at  the  loss  of  her  son  Arthur.     To 

"  Const.  My  widow-comfort,  and  mv  sorrows'  cure  ! ".  • 92-96 


6SG  INDEXES- 

IV.  1.  Hubert's  determination  to  put  out  young  Arthur's  eyes  is 
changed  (by  the  child's  pleading)  into  irresolution;  then 
into  a  disposition  to  Ijefriend,  and  finally  into  a  promise  to 
save  him 100-lOS 

IV.  2.    King  John's  compunctions  on  account    of   Arthur's    sup- 
posed death.     Hubert  announces  that  he  is  yet  alive.    From 
"  //(//(.  My  lord,  they  say  five  Moons  were  seen  to  night."  113-116 
V.  7.    The  death   of  King  John.     To  "P.  Hen.  When  this  was 

now  a  king,  and  now  is  clay  ?  " 141-144 

KING   LEAR. 

I.  1.   King  Lear  receives  the  professions  of  his  danghter's  love, 

and   disclaims   Cordelia  because   her  protestations   do   not 

satisfy  him.     From  "  Lear.  Attend  the  Lords  of  France  and 

Burgundy,  Gloster,'"  to  "  Lear.  Come,  noble  Burgundy.". . .  .57-67 

I.  4.    Lear's  curse  upon  Goneril.     From  "  Lear.  Your  name,  fair 

gentlewoman,"  to  "  Lear.  I  have  cast  off  forever." 88-91 

II.  4.   Lear's  distraction  when  Regan  excludes  him  from  Glos- 

ter's  castle.     To  "  L^ear.  O  Fool,  I  shall  go  mad  !  " 113-120 

III.  2.    Lear's  apostrophe  to  the  tempest.    To  "  Lear.  That's  sorry 

yet  for  thee." 130-133 

IV.  7.    Lear's  joy  and  penitence  when  he  recognizes  Cordelia,  who 

has  nursed  him  in  his  distress   and  madness.      To  "  Lear.  I 

am  old  and  foolish." 86-90 

V.  3.  The  "  child-changed  father  "  dies  of  grief  over  the  dead 
body  of  Cordelia.  From  "  Lear.  Howl !  Howl !  Howl !  "  to 
"Alb.  Bear  them  from  hence. — Our  jiresent  business  is 
general  woe." 208-211 

MACBETH. 

I.  3.  The  salutations  of  the  Weird  Sisters  (by  revealing  to 
him,  "  in  the  day  of  success "  his  half-engendered  guilty 
thoughts)  awaken  in  Macbeth  mingled  emotions  of  joy  and 
terror,  so  that  he  loses  himself  in  a  trance.  From  "  Much. 
So  fair  and  foul  a  day  I  have  not  seen." 55-62 

I.  5.   The  letter  scene.     Lady  Macbeth's  determination  to  have 

the  predictions  of  the  Weird  Sisters  fulfilled  by  murder ....  66-70 

I.  7.    When  Lady  Macbeth  "  pours  her  spirits  in  his  ear,"  the 

irresolution  of  INIacbeth  is  changed  into  determination 73-78 

11.  1.  The  horrible  imaginings  of  Macbeth  create  the  phantasm 
of  a  dagger  wliich  "  marshals  him  the  way  that  he  was  go- 
ing."    From  "  Mach.  Go,  bid  thy  mistress,  when  my  drink 


SCENES    FROM    SHAKESPEARE.  687 

is  ready,  she  strike  upon  the  bell,"  to  "  Macb.  I  would  thou 

couldst !"..... 80-86 

in.  2.    Macbeth 's  resolution  to  dispatch  Banquo  and  Fleance.  .104-108 

III.  4.    The  banquet  scene.     The  intense  fear  and  liorror  of  Mac- 

beth when  the  bloody  ghost  of  Banquo  rises  and  occupies 

his  seat 110-118 

IV.  3.    Malcom's    disparagement    of    himself   to  Macduff.     Mac- 

duff's grief,  anger,  and  thirst  for  revenge  when  it  is  an- 
nounced that  Macbeth  has  put  his  wife,  children,  and  kins- 
men to  death 135-147 

V.  1.  The  sleep-walking  scene.  The  "  awful  mingling  of  pathos 
and  terror,"  when  Lady  Macbeth's  conscience  "drives  her 
'  forth  open-eyed  yet  sightless  '  to  sigh  and  groan  over  spots 
on  her  hands  that  are  visible  to  none  but  herself" 147-150 

V.  5.  The  melancholy  reflections  of  Macbeth  on  his  own  life  and 
on  the  death  of  Lady  Macbeth.  He  "  begins  to  doubt  the 
equivocation  of  the  fiend,"  but  is  resolved  to  die  with  "  har- 
ness on  his  back  " 157-100 

V.  8.  The  fight  between  Macbeth  and  Macduff.  The  death  of 
Macbeth.  To  "Macb.  And  damn'd  be  he  that  first  cries, 
Hold,  enough  !" .163-164 

MERCHANT   OF   VENICE. 

I.  2.   Portia,  in  a  dialogue  with  Nerissa,  makes  a  witty  and  wise 

disposal  of  her  "  parcel  of  wooers  " 89-94 

I.  3.    Shylock's  hidden  malice  when  solicited  for  the  loan.     His 

revengeful  mirth  when  Antonio  accepts  his  conditions. . .  .94-102 
III.  1.    Shylock's    vehement     determination    to    exact    the    for- 
feiture   133-137 

III.  2.   Bassanio  chooses  the  right  casket,  and  Portia  becomes  his 

wife.  To  "  Bass.  Our  feast  shall  be  much  lionour'd  in  your 
marriage." 137-147 

IV.  1.   The  trial  scene.     Shylock  pushes  his  revengeful  suit  until 

Portia  "  turns  the  letter  of  the  law  against  him,"  and  sub- 
jects even  his  life  to  the  mercy  of  the  Duke.  To  "  Duke. 
Get  thee  gone,  but  do  it." 160-177 

MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DREAM. 

HI.  2.  Sorrow,  love,  jealousy,  anger,  and  revenge  occasioned  by 
the  mistakes  of  the  fairy  Puck.  From  "  Dem.  0,  why  re- 
buke you  him  that  loves  you  so  1  "  to  "  Her.  Heavens  shield 
Lysander,  if  they  mean  a  fray  !  " 67-84 


688  INDEXES. 

MUCH    ADO   ABOUT   NOTHING. 

II.  1.   The  flashes  of  wit  and  repartee  of  Beatrice.  To  "Z*.  Pedro. 

Look,  here  she  comes." 40-49 

II.  3.   Benedick's  resolution  to  remain  a  bachelor  is  shaken 57-GO 

Omit  "D.  Pedro.  Come,  shall  we  hear  this  music?  "  and  what 
follows,  down  to  "D.Pedro.  Come  hither,  Leonato." 58-60 

III.  5.    Conceit  and  simplicity ;  the  blundering  magistrates   86-89 

IV.  1.    Claudio,  blinded  by  the  fraud  of  Don  John,  accuses  Hero 

of  dishonour,  and  will  not  receive  her  hand  in  marriage  .  .89-101 
IV.  2.    Amiable  absurdity.    The  ignorant,  droll,  and  self-important 

Dogberry  conducts  the  trial  of  Conrad  and  Borachio  . . .  .102-104 
V.  2.   Benedick  wooes  and  wins  Beatrice 118-122 

OTHELLO. 

I.  3.    Othello    tells  a  plain,  unvarnished  story  of  his  life,  and 

shows  how  he  "did  thrive  in  Desderaona's  love,"  and  she 
confesses  herself  "  half  the  wooer."  From  "  Duke.  Valiant 
Othello,  we  must  straight  employ  you,"  to  "Bra.  I  have 
done,  my  lord." 64-71 

II.  1.  lago  cajoles  Roderigo  into  a  plot  for  getting  Cassio  dis- 
graced and  cashiered.     From  "  Otic.  O  my  fair  warrior !  "  . .  .  89-94 

II.  3.  The  drinking-scene.  The  fight  between  Cassio  and  Mon- 
tano.  The  astonishment  of  Othello.  Cassio  displaced  and 
lago  promoted.  Cassio's  humiliation  and  depression  at  the 
loss  of  his  reputation.  To  "  layo.  That  shall  enmesh  them 
all." 95-108 

III.  3.   Desdemona,  "  in  simple  and  pure  soul,"  endeavours  to  get 

Cassio  restored.  lago,  by  his  inscrutable  cunning,  con- 
vinces Othello  that  Desdemona  is  false  to  him ;  and  Othello 

resolves  to  avenge  her  imputed  trespass  by  death 113-134 

V.  2.  Desdemona  put  to  death.  Othello's  remorse  when  Emilia 
convinces  him  of  her  innocence  and  of  lago's  treachery. 
Othello's  extreme  agony  and  suicide.  To  "  Lod.  O  bloody 
period!  " 176-193 

KING  RICHARD   THE  SECOND. 

I.  2.   The  passion  of  revenge  kindled  by  Gloster's  death 48-51 

II.  2.   The  despair  of  the  Court  on  learning  that,  while  the  King 

is  in  Ireland,  Bolingbroke  has  landed  in  England,  and  that 
the  Percys  and  other  Lords  have  joined  him.  To  "  York. 
And  every  thing  is  left  at  six  and  seven."  81-87 


SCENES    FROM    SHAKESPEARE.  689 

III.  2.   King  Richard's  grief  at  the  loss  of  his  kingdom,  and  his 

anger  with  liis  disloyal  subjects 99-108 

IV.  1.   The  downfall  of  Richard  and  the  usurpation  of  Boling- 

broke.     From  "  K.  Rich.  Alack !  why  am  I  sent  for  to  a 
king?  "  to  " K.  Rich.  That  rise  thus  nimbly  by  a  true  king's 

fall." 128-135 

V.  1.    The  parting  of  King  Ricliard  and  Queen  Isabella 136-141 

V.  5.    King   Richard's    soliloquy.      To  "/i.  Rich.    Is   a   strange 

brooch  in  this  all-hating  world." 153-156 

KING  RICHARD   THE  THIRD. 

I.  1.  The  subtle,  false,  and  treacherous  Gloster  lays  plans  to 
dispose  of  the  King  and  Clarence  while  professing  to  be  the 
devoted  friend  of  each 45-52 

I.  2.    Gloster's  wooing  of  Lady  Anne,  who,  "with  curses  in  her 

mouth,  tears  in  her  eyes,"  at  last  yields  to  his  arts 53-63 

I.  4.  Clarence's  terrible  dream.  To  "  Clcir.  Such  terrible  im- 
pression made  my  dream." 78-81 

IV.  4.  King  Richard  sues  Queen  Elizabeth  for  her  daughter's 
hand.  From  "K.  Rich.  Stay,  madam;  I  must  speak  a  word 
with  you,"  to  "  A'.  Rich.  Relenting  fool,  and  shallow-changing 

woman  !  " 165-173 

V.  3.  Richard's  dream.  The  orations  of  Richmond  and  Richard 
to  their  armies.  From  "  A'.  Rich.  What  is't  o'clock?  "  to 
"  Victory  sits  on  our  helms." 184-198 

ROMEO   AND  JULIET. 
I.  4.    Mercutio's  humorous  description  of  Queen  Mab.     From 

"  Rojn.  I  dreamt  a  dream  to-night." 57-59 

II.  2.   The   balcony   scene.     The   intense   protestations   of  love 

between  Romeo  and  Juliet 69-77 

II.  5.   Juliet's  impatience  to  learn  of  the  Nurse  the  result  of  her 

errand  to  Romeo 90-92 

III.  2.   Juliet's  conflict  of  passion  when  the  Nurse  tells  her  of  Ty- 

balt's death  by  the  hand  of  Romeo,  who  for  this  act  is  to  be 
banished 103-109 

IV.  1.   Juliet  implores  Friar  Laurence  to  save  her  from  a  mar- 

riage with  Paris.     He  gives  her  a  vial  of   distilled  liquor 
which,  when  taken,  will  cause  the  semblance  of  death  for  a 
time.    From  "  Par.  Happily  met,  my  lady  and  my  wife  !  "  .  129-133 
IV.  3.   The  potion  scene 136-138 

V.  3.   The  tomb  scene.     The  duel  of  Romeo  and  Paris  results  in 

the  death  of  Paris.     Romeo,  thinking  Juliet  dead,  takes 


690  INDEXES. 

poison  and  dies.  Juliet  awakens  out  of  her  stupor;  and, 
finding  Romeo  dead,  seizes  ids  dagger  and  ends  her  own 
life.  From  "  Rom.  Give  me  that  mattock  and  the  wrenching- 
iron,"  to  "Jul.  This  is  thy  sheath ;  there  rest,  and  let  me  die."  152-158 

THE   TEMPEST. 
I.  2.    Miranda's  surprise  on  learning  of  her  noble  birth.     Meet- 
ing and  mutual  inspiration  of  Ferdinand  and  Miranda 48-75 

Omit  "  Ari.  All  hail,  great  master !  grave  sir,  hail,"  and 
what  follows,  down  to  "Ariel  simjs.  Full  fathom   five  thy 

father  lies." 59-69 

III.  3.  Alonso,  Sebastian,  Antonio,  and  others  tormented  by  Ariel 
and  his  fellow-spirits.     Ariel  tells  the  men  what  is  to  befall 

them  for  their  treatment  of  Prospero 110-1 IG 

Omit  the  part  of  Prospero 115 

THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 
I.  2.   Camillo,  having  consented  to  poison   Polixenes,  informs 
him  of  the  plot,  and  gives  him  safe-conduct  out  of  the  city. 
From  "  Polix.  This  is  strange :  methinks  my  favor  here  be- 
gins to  warp." 57-61 

III.  2.   Paulina's  grief  and  indignation  at  the  death  of  the  Queen. 

Leontes'  bitter  reproaches  against  himself.  From  "Paul. 
Woe  the  while !  O,  cut  my  lace,  lest  my  heart,  cracking  it, 
break  too!  " 93-95 

V.  2.  Description  of  the  meeting  of  the  two  kings,  and  the  joy 
of  Leontes  on  finding  that  Perdita  is  his  lost  daughter.  To 
"  \_Exeunt  Gentlemen." 157-161 

V.  3.  The  intense  surprise  and  joy  of  Leontes  when  Paulina  un- 
veils the  supposed  statue,  which  proves  to  be  his  long-lost 
Hermione 164-171 

TWELFTH   NIGHT. 
II.  4.   The  Duke,  enraptured  with  the  music,  sends  for  the  Clown 

to  sing  to  him.     He  fancies  himself  enamoured  of  Olivia  .  .67-73 

IV.  3.    Sebastian's  trance  of  joy  and  wonder  on  being  mistaken 

by  Olivia  for  his  sister 120-121 

ALL'S   WELL  THAT   ENDS   WELL. 

HARVARD   EDITION,  VOL.   IV. 

I.  3.  Helena  confesses  to  the  Countess  that  she  loves  her  son, 
and  that  she  hopes  to  cure  the  disease  of  which  the  King  is 
dying.  From  "  Countess.  Even  so,  it  was  with  me  when  I 
was  young." 30-35 


SCENES    FROM    SHAKESPEARE.  691 

COMEDY   OF   ERRORS. 

HARVARD    EDITION,  VOL.  I. 

II.  2.    Antipholus   of    Syracuse  beats  Droniio   of   Syracuse   for 

"flouting"  him.  Adriana,  mistaking  Antipliolus  of  Syra- 
cuse for  her  husband  Antipholus  of  Ephesus,  accuses  him  of 
infidelity 94-102 

III.  1.   A  general  confusion  of  the  Dromios  and  their  masters.  .102-115 
Omit  "Luc.  And  may  it  be  that  you  have  quite  forgot  a 
husband's  office?  "  and  what  follows,  down  to  "  Ant.  S.  Why, 

how  now,  Dromio!  " 108-111 

Also  ^'  Ant.  S.  What  complexion  is  she  of  1  "  and  what  fol- 
lows, down  to  "Ant.  S.  Go  hie  thee  presently  to  the  road."  112-114 

V.  1.  Adriana's  anguish  of  heart  at  the  supposed  loss  of  her  hus- 
band's love.  The  unravelling  of  errors,  and  the  general  rec- 
onciliation. Omit  all,  down  to  "  Adr.  Justice,  most  sacred 
Duke,  against  the  Abbess  !  " 138 

KING   HENRY   THE   SIXTH,  PART   FIRST. 

HARVARD  EDITION,  VOL.  VIII. 

III.  1.    The  King's  distress  at  the  skirmish  of  the  serving-men. 

From  "King.  We  charge  you,  on  allegiance  to  ourself.". . .  .56-59 
V.  5.   King  Henry  agrees  to  receive  Margaret  as  his  Queen. .  .109-113 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH,  PART  SECOND. 

HARVARD  EDITION,  VOL.  VIII. 

III.  2.   Suffolk  is  accused  of  the  murder  of  Gloster.     The  league 

between  Margaret  and  Suffolk 191-206 

IV.  10.   Cade  in  a  passion  of  shame  and  self-contempt.    He  fights 

with  Iden,  and  is  slain 235-238 


KING   HENRY   THE    SIXTH,  PART  THIRD. 

HARVARD   EDITION,  VOL.  IX. 

I.  1.  Queen  Margaret,  in  a  transport  of  grief  and  anger  at  the 
disinheriting  of  her  son,  vows  to  divorce  herself  from  the 
King,  till  the  Act  of  Parliament  is  repealed,  and  her  son 
thus  restored  to  his  birthright.     From  "  Queen.  Nay,  go  not 

from  me  ;  I  will  follow  thee." 15-18 

V.  4.   The  Queen's  address  to  the  leaders  of  her  troops 107-109 

V.  5.   King  Henry  stings  Gloster  with  his  tongue,  and  Gloster 

pays  him  with  stabs 114-117 


692  INDEXES. 

LOVE'S  LABODR  LOST. 

HARVARD    EDITION,  VOL.  II. 

II  1.   A  merry  war  of  wit  and  coquetry  in  the  Court  of  Navarre,  23-38 
MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 

HARVARD   EDITION,  VOL.  VI. 

V.  1.  Isabella  proves  her  innocence,  and,  with  the  aid  of  the 
Duke  and  Provost,  rescues  her  brother  Claudio  from  death. 
Omit  "  I  find  an  apt  remission  in  myself,"  and  what  follows,     242 

MERRY  WIVES  OP  WINDSOR. 

HARVARD  EDITION,  VOL.  VI. 

III.  3.  The  trick  of  the  Merry  Wives.  In  order  to  conceal  Fal- 
staff  from  their  husbands,  they  put  him  in  a  basket  of 
clothes,  and  the  servants  "empty  it  in  a  muddy  ditch  close 
by  the  Thames." 60-68 

III.  5.   Falstaff's  comical  description  of  the  situation.     To  "  Fed. 

Think  of  that,  Master  Brook !  " 72-76 

IV.  2.   Falstaff's  second  exploit.      This  time  he  escapes  detection 

by  disappearing  in  a  woman's  dress 80-87 

V.  1.   Falstaff  resolves  to  make  a  third  adventure  with  Mrs.  Ford,  97-98 

PERICLES. 

HARVARD  EDITION,  VOL.  XIX. 

V.  1.  Marina,  with  her  singing,  awakens  Pericles  from  his  trance, 
and,  "  by  her  own  most  clear  remembrance,  makes  known 
herself  his  daughter."  The  surprise  and  joy  of  Pericles. 
From  "  Eel.  Sure,  all's  effectless,"  to  "  \_Exeunt  all  hut  Peri- 
cles."   90-98 

V.  2.  Pericles  goes  to  Ephesus  to  offer  sacrifice  to  Diana,  and 
while  in  the  temple  is  transported  with  joy  at  meeting  with 
his  Queen,  whom  he  supposed  to  be  dead.  To  "Enter 
GowER." 100-103 

THE  TAMING  OP  THE  SHREW. 

HARVARD  EDITION,  VOL.  II. 

II.  1.  Petruchio's  humorous  wooing  of  Catharine.  From  "  Pet. 
Signior  Baptista,  my  business  asketh  haste,"  to  "  Pet.  And 
kiss  me,  Kate ;  we  will  be  married  o'  Sunday." 177-184 

V.  2.  The  astonishment  of  the  company  when  Petruchio  wins 
the  wager  by  the  prompt  and  cheerful  obedience  of  his 
wife 234-241 


SCENES    FROM    SHAKESPEARE.  693 

TIMON   OF    ATHENS. 

HARVARD   EDITION,  VOL.  XV. 

I.  1.  Timon's  prodigal  and  reckless  bounty  to  his  friends.  From 
"  Tim.  Imprison'd  is  he,  say  you  1  "  to  "  \_Exeunt  all  but 
Apemantds." 200-207 

III.  4.   Timon's  merciless  creditors  push  and  worry  him  into  a 

frenzy .236-241 

IV.  3.   Timon  the  hermit.     Apemantus  visits  and  plagues  him. 

Timon's  rage.      From  "  Tim.  That   nature,  being  sick  of 
man's  imkindness,"  to  "  lExit.  Apemantus." 262-272 

TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 

HARVARD   EDITION,  VOL.  XIII. 

I.  1.  Titus  returns  in  triumph  to  Rome  after  the  wars,  bringing 
the  dead,  slain  in  battle,  for  honourable  burial,  and  the 
Goths  as  prisoners.  The  sacrifice  of  the  Prince  of  the  Goths 
to  appease  the  dead.  "  Tit.  Hail,  Rome,  victorious  iu  thy 
mourning  weed,"  to  "  3far.  And  say  Long  live  our  Emperor 
Saturnine  !" 10-16 

TROIL.US  AND  CRESSIDA. 

HARVARD   EDITION,  VOL.  XVI, 

I.  3.  Ulysses  complains  of  Achilles.  Hector  challenges  the 
Greeks  to  send  a  man  to  combat  with  him.  From  "  Ulyss. 
The  great  Achilles,  —  whom  opinion  crowns." 220-230 

V.  3.  Hector,  regardless  of  prophecies  and  the  entreaties  of  his 
friends,  goes  forth  alone  to  fight  the  Greeks.  To  "  \_Exeunt 
severally  Priam  and  Hector." 320-324 

V.  8.   Hector  unarmed  is  slain  by  Achilles 331-332 

TWO  GENTLEMEN  OP  VERONA. 

HARVARD   EDITION,  VOL.  I. 

I.  2.  Julia's  passionate  love  for  Proteus.  Her  affected  indiffer- 
ence   167-173 

II.  1.   Speel  tells  Valentine,  his  master,  of  the  special  marks  by 

which  he  knows  him  to  be  in  love.     To  "Enter  Silvia.".  .176-179 

III.  1.  The  Duke  banishes  Valentine  for  loving  his  daughter 
Silvia,  when  he  learns  tliat  she  is  to  be  abducted.  To  "  Val. 
O  my  dear  Silvia !    Hapless  Valentine  ! " 200-209 


694  INDEXES. 

IV.  2.  Julia  is  cast  off  by  Proteus.  Disguised  as  a  boy,  she  be- 
comes his  servant.  He  sends  her  to  woo  Silvia  for  him. 
She  recounts  to  Silvia  the  grief  and  loneliness  of  Julia. 
From  "Pro.  Sebastian  is  thy  name  ?     I  like  thee  well.".  .228-235 


n.   INDEX  TO  READINGS  FROM  THE  BIBLE. 

[The  following  selections  are  made  with  reference  to  their  adaptation 
to  public  reading.  We  do  not  claim  that  this  list  covers  the  whole  ground, 
or  includes  all  the  choice  readings  from  the  Scriptures,  but  that  the  selec- 
tion and  classification  have  been  carefully  made.  In  many  cases,  marked 
differences  of  sentiment  occur  in  the  same  chapter;  so  that  it  is  not  always 
easy  to  decide  just  where,  in  our  order,  a  given  chapter  should  be  placed; 
but  it  is  believed  that,  on  the  whole,  the  selections  are  assigned  to  those 
places  which  best  fit  their  general  character.  —  The  brief  titles  we  give  to 
the  chapters  are  intended  merely  to  announce  the  subject  in  as  few  words  as 
possible.  —  The  numerals  on  the  right  hand  of  the  page  refer  to  the  charac- 
teristic headings  under  which  the  matter  of  the  volume  is  distributed,  as 
set  forth  in  the  Table  of  Contents.] 

Genesis       I.  The  Creation • . .  I 

XLII.  Joseph  and  his  brethren I. 

XLIII.   Joseph  entertains  his  brethren III. 

XLIV.   His  policy  towards  them XIII. 

XLV.   He  makes  himself  known  to  them III. 

XLVL,  to  V.  31,  omitting  7  to  18.     The  meeting  of  Joseph 

and  Jacob I. 

L.   Joseph  mourning  for  Jacob Ill 

Exodus  XIV.    The  Egyptians  drowned I. 

XV.,  to  22.    The  Song  of  Moses  and  the  Children  of 

Israel VIIL 

XX.   The  Ten  Commandments I. 

Deutee.  XI.   An  exhortation  to  obedience VI. 

XXXII.   1  to  44.   Moses'  song  of  God's  mercy  and  vengeance,  V. 

Joshua     VI.  Jericho  besieged  and  taken I. 

Ruth  I    Omit  9  to  14.     Ruth's  constancy  to  Naomi XIIT. 

II.   Ruth  gleaning  in  the  fields  of  Boaz I. 

I.  Sam.       II.   to  12.     Hannah's  song  of  thankfulness  IV. 

III.    God  calls  Samuel I- 

XVI.    Samuel  anoints  David I. 

XVII.   David  slays  Goliath I 

XVIII.   Jonathan's  love  and  Saul's  jealousy 1 


READINGS    FROM    THE    BIBLE. 


695 


L  Sam.  XX.    11  to  end.     Jonathan's  covenant  witli  David   I 

XXIV.   David  spares  Saul V. 

XXVIII.    3  to  21.     Saul  and  the  Witch  of  Endor XIII. 

XXXI.   The  death  of  Saul I. 

n.  Sam.        I.    17  to  27.    David's  lamentation  over  Saul  and  Jona- 
than       III. 

XVIII.   Omit  17-20,  22-23,  and  26-30.     Absalom  slain  (I.) ; 

David's  mourning  (III.) I.  &  III. 

XXII.    David's  thanksgiving IV. 

I.  Kings    III.    Omit  1-4.     The  wisdom  of  Solomon XIII. 

VIII.   22  to  62.     Solomon's  prayer IV. 

X.    1  to  14.    The  Queen  of  Sheba  before  Solomon ....        I. 

XVIII.    17  to  41.     The  death  of  the  false  Prophets VII. 

XXII.    15  to  37.     Ahab's  death XIII. 

II.  Kings   II.    1  to  15.     The  translation  of  Elijah I. 

V.    1  to  15.     Naaman  cleansed  of  leprosy VII. 

XVni.   Omit  1-12,  15-16,  18-27,  and  31,  32.     Sennacherib 

invades  Judah I. 

XIX.   Omit  1-14,  24,  and  29-31.     Hezekiah's  prayer;  the 

Assyrians  slain IV.  &  VI. 

Ezra        IX.    Omit  1-4.     Ezra's  prayer  and  confession IV. 

Esther      II.   Esther  made  queen I. 

III.  Haman  despised  by  Mordecai I. 

IV.  The  mourning  of  the  Jews I. 

V.  Esther  obtains  the  king's  favour XIII. 

VI.    Mordecai's  good  services I. 

VII.    Haman  hanged XIII. 

Job  III.   Job  curses  the  day  of  his  birth VII. 

X.   Job  expostulates  with  God XIII. 

XI.    Zophar's  reproof  of  Job VII. 

XII.   God's  omnipotency  maintained V. 

XIII.  Job's  reply  to  Zopliar  and  his  friends XIII. 

XIV.  The  conditions  of  man's  life I. 

XVI.   Job  shows  the  pitifulness  of  his  case IV. 

XXVIII.   Omit  1-11.     Wisdom  the  gift  of  God I. 

XXIX.   Job  bemoans  himself III. 

XXX.   Job's  honour  turned  into  contempt VII. 

XXXVIII.    God's  wisdom  is  unsearchable V. 

XXXIX.   Omit  1-9.   The  wisdom  of  God  and  the  ignorance 

of  Job V, 

XLI.    God's  power  in  the  leviathan V. 

XLU.    Job's   restoration  to   honour,  and  his  triumphant 

death Xllt 


696 


INDEXES. 


Psalms        I.   Happiness  of  the  godly I 

XVIII.    Praises  to  God V. 

XIX.    Prayer  for  grace IV. 

XXII.    David's  complaint  and  prayer XIII. 

XXIII.   David's  trust  in  God's  grace II. 

XXVII.   David's  faith  in  God's  power II. 

XLII.   David's  zeal  in  serving  God VI. 

XLVI.    "  God  is  our  refuge  and  strengtli " I. 

LI.   Prayer  against  sin  and  for  the  church   IV. 

LXVI.   An  exhortation  to  praise  God VIII. 

LXVII.   Praj^er  for  God's  kingdom VI. 

LXXXIV.   "  How  amiable  are  thy  tabernacles,  0  Lord  !"....       V. 

XC.   God's  providence IV. 

CII.    1  to  19.     "  Hear  my  prayer,  0  Lord," IV. 

cm.   Thanksgiving  for  God's  constancy V. 

CIV.   "  Bless  the  Lord,  O  my  soul " V. 

CXXXVII.   Constancy  of  the  Jews  in  captivity III. 

CXLV.   David  extols  God's  goodness VIII. 

CL.   "  Praise  ye  the  Lord  " VIII. 

Proverbs    I.   Exhortation  to  fear  God I. 

IV.   Persuasions  to  obedience I. 

X.   The  contrast  of  virtues  and  vices I. 

XV.   Moral  virtues  contrasted  with  vices I. 

EccLES.  XII.   Remember  now  thy  Creator II. 

Solomon's  Song  II.   Christ's  care  of  the  church II. 

IV.  The  graces  of  the  church II. 

V.   God's  love  for  the  church II. 

IsA.    XXXV.   The  blessings  of  the  gospel V. 

XL.   The  promulgation  of  the  gospel V, 

XLIV.   9  to  21.     The  vanity  of  idols I. 

XLIX.   Omit  1-6.     God's  love  is  perpetual V. 

LIII.   The  humiliation  of  Christ V. 

LV.  The  happiness  of  believers V. 

Jer.  IX.  Jeremiah's  lamentation XIII. 

LI.   God's  judgment  against  Babylon VI. 

Lam.  IV.   Zion's  complaint III. 

V.   Zion's  prayer  to  God IV. 

Daniel      II.   Daniel  advanced  I. 

III.   The  Hebrew  children  in  the  fiery  furnace XIII. 

VI.    Daniel  in  the  lion's  den I. 

Joel  II.   Exhortation  to  repentance V. 

Habak.     III.    Habakkuk's  prayer IV, 

Mal.        III.   The  majesty  of  Christ VII 


READINGS    FROM    THE    BIBLE.  697 

Mal.         rV".  God's  judgments  and  blessings , ,  V. 

Matt.  V.,  VI.,  VII.     Christ's  Sermon  on  tlie  Mount I. 

XI.  Christ's  testimony  concerning  Jolin V. 

XXV.  The  parable  of  the  ten  virgins III. 

Luke       XV.  Omit  1-10.     The  parable  of  the  prodigal  son I. 

John             I.  The  divinity  of  Christ III. 

VIII.  Omit  1-11.     Christ's  doctrine  justified I. 

IX.  The  blind  restored  to  sight I. 

XI.  to  47.     Lazarus  raised  from  the  dead III. 

XIV.  The  Comforter  promised I.  &  11. 

XVU.  The  prayer  of  Christ IV. 

XVIIL  Jesus  betrayed XIII. 

XIX.  The  crucifixion  of  Christ XIII. 

XX.  The  resurrection  of  Christ XIII. 

Acts      XIII.  Omit  1-15.     Paul's  sermon  at  Antioch VI- 

XXV.  Paul  appeals  to  Caesar VI. 

XXVI.  Paul's  defence  before  Agrippa VI. 

XXVII.  The  tempest  and  Paul's  shipwreck I.  &  XIII. 

Romans      V.  Justification  by  faith I. 

VIII,  Christians  free  from  condemnation I. 

XII.  Love  and  other  duties  required   I. 

XV.  The  teachings  of  the  Scriptures I. 

I.  Cor.  XIII.  Charity  commended V. 

XV.  The  resurrection  of  man V. 

L  Thess.  IV.  13-18,  and  V.  1-13.     Comfort  of  the  gospel  to  the 

bereaved II. 

Hebrews    I.  Christ's  preeminence IV. 

II.  Obedience  to  Christ III. 

James        II.  Omit  1-13.     Faith  and  Works I. 

III.  The  truly  wise I. 

I.  John       II.  Christ  the  advocate  and  propitiation I. 

III.  God's  great  love  toward  us III. 

V.  Exhortation  to  brotherly  love 1. 

Rev.          IV.  Vision  of  the  throne  of  God V. 

VII.  Omit  1-8.     Vision  of  the  Judgment V. 

XXI.  Vision  of  the  heavenly  Jerusalem V. 

XXII.  The  river  and  tree  of  life ;  conclusion II 


G98  INDEXES. 


ni.   INDEX  TO   HYMNS. 

[As  the  titles  of  hymns  are  not  always  the  same  in  the  different  denomi. 
national  hymn-books,  and  as  we  do  not  wish  to  quote  any  particular  hymn- 
book  in  preference  to  others,  we  make  this  an  index  to  the  first  lines.  We 
have  chosen  the  hymns  best  adapted  to  use  in  reading  rather  than  those 
which  have  become  i^opular  from  the  tunes  they  are  commonly  sung  to. 
We  do  not  claim  that  the  whole  of  each  hymn  has  the  character  of  the 
division  to  which  it  is  referred  ;  for  it  often  happens  that  the  first  part  of  a 
hymn  is  in  a  joyous,  triumphant  mood,  while  the  latter  part  is  a  solemn 
prayer ;  but  the  general  sentiment  of  the  selection  will  be  found  to  accord 
witli  the  classification  here  given.] 


I.   NARRATIVE,  DESCRIPTIVE,  DIDACTIC. 

Am  I  a  soldier  of  the  cross Isaac  Watts. 

And  is  the  gospel  peace  and  love?    Anne  Steele. 

Bleeding  hearts  defiled  by  sin   

Broad  is  the  road  that  leads  to  death Isaac  Watts. 

Flee  as  a  bird  to  your  mountain 

Glorious  things  of  Thee  are  spoken John  Newton, 

Go  bury  thy  sorrow 

God  moves  in  a  mysterious  way .  William  Cowper. 

Go,  labor  on ;  spend  and  be  spent Horatius  Bonar. 

Hasten,  sinner,  to  be  wise Thomas  Scott. 

My  soul,  be  on  thy  guard George  Heath. 

Prayer  is  the  breath  of  God  in  man Benj.  Beddone. 

Prayer  is  the  soul's  sincere  desire James  Montrjomery. 

There  is  an  hour  of  peaceful  rest Wm.  B.  Tappan. 

There's  a  wilderness  in  God's  mercy Frederick  Faber. 

There  were  ninety  and  nine  that  safely  lay P.  P.  Bliss. 

Though  trouble  assail  and  dangers  affright John  Newton. 

Watchman,  tell  us  of  the  night Sir  John  Bowring. 

When  marshalled  on  the  mighty  plain II.  K.  White. 

While  sheplierds  watched  their  flocks Tate. 

Work,  for  the  niglit  is  coming Sidney  Dyer. 

II.    LOVE,  BEAUTY,  TRANQUILLITY. 

All  my  doubts  I  give  to  Jesus 

Asleep  in  Jesus Mrs.  M.  Machay 

Fade,  fade,  each  earthly  joy  Mrs,  Horatius  Bonar 


HYArNs.  099 

"Forever  with  the  Lord  ! " James  Montgomery 

Hail,  sweetest,  dearest  tie  that  binds Sutton 

How  blest  the  righteous  when  he  dies  !  Mrs.  A.  L.  Barhauld. 

How  happy  is  the  Christian's  state 

How  sweet  the  hour  of  closing  day William  II.  Bathurst. 

How  sweet  the  name  of  Jesus  sounds John  Newton. 

I  love  to  steal  awhile  away Mrs.  P.  If.  Brown. 

More  love  to  Thee,  O  Christ Mrs.  Elizabeth  P.  Prentiss. 

My  days  are  gliding  swiftly  by Daoid  Nelson. 

My  hope  is  built  on  nothing  less Edward  Mote. 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee ! Mrs.  Sarah  F.  Adams. 

One  more  day's  work  for  Jesus Anna  B.  Warner. 

Only  waiting  till  the  shadows Mrs.  F.  L.  Mace. 

Since  I  can  read  my  title  clear Isaac  Watts, 

Sister,  thou  wast  mild  and  lovely S.  F.  Smith. 

Softly  now  the  light  of  day George  W.  Doane. 

Vain,  delusive  world,  adieu Charles  Wesley. 

What  a  friend  we  have  in  Jesus Horatius  Bonar. 

When  I  survey  the  wondrous  cross Isaac  Watts. 

Wiien  shall  the  voice  of  singing James  Edmeston,  alt. 

Yield  to  me  now,  for  I  am  weak Charles  Wesley 


III.   GRAVE.  SOLEMN.  SERIOUS,  PATHETIC. 

Alas !  and  did  my  Saviour  bleed Isaac  Watts. 

Approach,  ray  soul,  the  mercy-seat   John  Newton. 

Arise,  my  soul,  arise ' Charles  Wesley. 

Beyond  the  smiling  and  the  weeping Horatius  Bonar. 

Come,  Thou  Fount  of  every  blessing Robert  Bobinson. 

Depth  of  mercy !  can  there  be Charles  Wesley. 

Did  Christ  o'er  sinners  weep Benj.  Beddone. 

Friend  after  friend  departs James  Montgomery. 

From  every  stormy  wind  that  blows H.  Stoivell. 

He  leadeth  rae  !     0  blessed  thought J.  H.  Gilmore. 

Holy  Bible ;  book  divine John  Burton. 

How  tedious  and  tasteless  the  hours John  Newton. 

I  know  that  my  Redeemer  lives Charles  Wesley. 

I  would  not  live  always W.  A.  Muhlenberg. 

Jerusalem,  my  happy  home 

Jesus,  I  my  cross  have  taken Henry  F.  Lyte. 

Late,  late,  so  late !  and  dark  the  night Alfred  Tennyson. 

Let  us  gather  up  the  sunbeams Mrs.  Albert  Smith. 

Love  for  all,  and  can  it  be S.  Longfellow 


700  INDEXES. 

Night  with  ebon  pinions L.  H.  Jameson 

O  for  a  closer  walk  witli  God William  Cowper. 

O  for  a  faith  that  will  not  shrink William  H.  Bathurst. 

O,  to  be  nothing,  nothing 

O  Thou  who  driest  the  mourner's  tear , Thomas  Moore. 

O  where  shall  rest  be  found James  Montgomery. 

Safely  through  another  week John  Newton. 

Take  the  name  of  Jesus  with  you Mrs.  Lydia  Baxter, 

The  mistakes  of  my  life  have  been  many 

There  is  a  land  of  pure  delight Isaac  Watts. 

Thou  art  gone  to  the  grave Reginald  Heber. 

Vital  spark  of  heavenly  flame Alexander  Pope. 

What  a  friend  we  have  in  Jesus C.  C.  Converse. 

What  could  your  Redeemer  do Charles  Wesley. 

When  all  thy  mercies,  O  my  God Joseph  Addison. 

When  I  can  read  my  title  clear aS(V  Robert  Grant. 

Where  is  my  wandering  boy  to-night 

With  tearful  eyes  I  look  around Charlotte  Elliot, 


IV.  REVERENCE,  DEVOTION,  ADORATION, 

Abide  with  me H.  F.  Lyte, 

A  charge  to  keep  I  have Charles  Wesley. 

Before  Jehovah's  awful  throne Isaac  Watts. 

Come,  Holy  Spirit,  heavenly  Dove Isaac  Watts. 

Fading,  still  fading Selina  Huntington, 

Father,  whate'er  of  earthly  bliss Aiine  Steele. 

God  is  in  his  holy  temple James  Montgomery, 

God,  the  All-Terrible Heiiry  F.  Chorley. 

Guide  me,  O  thou  great  Jehovah William  Williams. 

I  ask  the  gift  of  righteousness Charles  Wesley. 

I  need  Thee  every  hour Mrs.  Annie  S.  Hawks. 

In  thy  name,  O  Lord,  assembling Thomas  Kelly. 

Jesus,  let  thy  pitying  eye Charles  Wesley. 

Jesus,  lover  of  my  soul Charles  Wesley. 

Jesus,  thou  art  the  sinner's  friend Richard  Burnham. 

Just  as  I  am,  without  one  plea Charlotte  Elliot. 

Lead  us.  Heavenly  Father !  lead  us James  Edmeston. 

Lo,  on  a  narrow  neck  of  land Charles  Wesley. 

Lord,  I  am  thine,  entirely  thine Sainuel  Davies. 

Lord,  we  come  before  thee  now William  Hammond. 

'Mid  scenes  of  confusion David  Denham. 

My  faith  looks  up  to  Thee Boy  Palmer, 


HYMNS.  701 

Pass  me  not,  O  gentle  Saviour! F.  C.  Van  Alsti/ne. 

Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me Augustus  M.  Toplady,  alt. 

Saviour,  breathe  an  evening  blessing James  Edmeston. 

Saviour,  like  a  shepherd  lead  us .Dorothy  A.  Thrupp. 

Show  pity,  Lord,  O  Lord  forgive Isaac  Watts. 

Tlie  day  of  wrath,  that  dreadful  day Sir  Walter  Scott. 

When  all  thy  mercies,  O  my  God Joseph  Addison. 


V.  GRAND,  BOLD,  SUBLIME. 

All  hail  the  power  of  Jesus'  name  ! Edward  Perronet. 

Blow  ye  tlie  trumpet,  blow Charles  Wesley. 

Come,  let  us  join  our  cheerful  songs Isaac  Watts. 

Come,  let  us  join  our  friends  above Charles  Wesley. 

Come,  ye  that  love  the  Lord Isaac  Watts. 

Earth  has  a  joy  unknown  in  heaven A.  L.  Hillhouse. 

From  all  that  dwell  below  the  skies Isaac  Watts. 

From  Greenland's  icy  mountains   Reginald  Heher. 

Hark !  ten  thousand  harps  and  voices Thomas  Kelly. 

Holy,  holy,  holy.  Lord  God  Almighty ! Reginald  Heher. 

Jesus,  and  shall  it  ever  be .Joseph  Gregg. 

Lift  your  glad  voices  in  triumph Henry  Ware,  Jr. 

Lo,  He  comes  with  clouds  descending Charles  Wesley. 

O  for  a  thousand  tongues,  to  sing Charles  Wesley. 

On  Jordan's  stormy  banks  I  stand Samuel  Stennett. 

Our  country's  voice  is  pleading Mrs.  Maria  F.  Anderson. 

Praise  the  Lord !  ye  heavens  adore  him John  Kempthorne. 

Roll  on,  tliou  mighty  ocean  ! 

Sinners,  turn,  why  will  ye  die John  Wesley. 

When  through  the  torn  sail Reginald  Heher. 

VI.  RELIGIOUS  PATRIOTISM, 

Awake  my  soul,  stretch  every  nerve Philip  Doddridge. 

Fling  out  the  banner !  let  it  float G.  W.  Doane. 

Forward !  be  our  watchword Henry  Alford. 

Go  forward,  Christian  soldier Laurence  Tuttiett. 

Go  forth,  ye  heralds,  in  my  name John  Logan. 

Ho  !  reapers  of  life's  harvest 

Labourers  of  Clirist,  arise Mrs.  Lydia  H.  Sigourney. 

My  country  !  'tis  of  thee Samuel  F.  Smith. 

Onward,  Christian  soldiers ! Sabine  Baring-Gould, 

Soldiers  of  Christ,  arise Charles  Wesley. 


702  INDEXES. 

Soldiers  of  Christ,  lay  hold Charles 

Soldiers  of  the  cross,  arise Tared  Bell  Waterbury, 

Stand  up,  stand  up  for  Jesus. George  Duffield,  Jr. 


VII.   LIVELY,  JOYOUS,  GAY. 

Awake,  and  sing  the  song William  Hammond. 

Blest  be  the  tie  that  binds Tohn  Fawcett. 

Brightest  and  best  of  the  sons  of  the  morning Reginald  Heber. 

Chiklren  of  the  Heavenly  King John  Cennick. 

Come,  let  us  anew  our  journey  pursue Charles  Wesley. 

Hallelujah,  He  is  risen 

How  firm  a  foundation  George  Keith. 

How  happy  are  they   Charles  Wesleij. 

I  know  that  my  Redeemer  lives Samuel  Medley. 

I've  foiuid  a  Friend 

I've  found  the  pearl  of  greatest  price  ! Tohn  Mason. 

Joy  to  the  world Isaac  Watts. 

O  happy  day  that  fixed  my  choice Philip  Doddridge. 

Salvation  !     0  the  joyful  sound Isaac  Watts. 

Servant  of  God,  well  done  !  Charles  Wesley 


ALPHABETICAL    INDEX    OF    SELECTIONS.  703 


IV.   ALPHABETICAL  INDEX  OF  SELECTIONS. 

[Note.  This  Index  is  for  the  general  reader  who  would  find  an  alpha- 
betical list  more  convenient  than  that  given  in  the  first  part  of  the  book. 
Tlie  numerals  on  the  left  hand  of  the  page  refer  to  the  characteristic  head- 
ings under  which  the  selections  are  classed.    See  page  vii.] 


A. 


PAGE 


I.   Adam's  Account  of  His  Creation Milton.  2 

I.    Advice  to  Young  Lawyers  Stori/.  4 

I.   Alpine  Minstrelsy Schiller.  39 

VI.    Ambition  of  a  Statesman Clai/.  298 

III.   Angels  of  Buena  Vista Whiltier.  125 

XII.   Annie  and  Willie's  Prayer Snow.  490 

VI.   Appeal  in  Behalf  of  Ireliuid Prentiss.  296 

V.    Apollo,  Ode  to Keats.  220 

V.   Apostrophe  to  the  Ocean Byron.  208 

VII.   Arraignment  of  Ministers Burke.  318 

II.    Astrological  Tower,  The Schiller.  113 

VI.   Attack  on  Pitt  Walpole.  260 

IX.    Aunt  Tabitha Holmes.  347 

IX.   Awfully  Lovely  Philosophy Anon.  348 

R 

IX.   Bald-Headed  Man,  The Anon.  350 

XIII.    Beautiful  Snow,  The Watson.  529 

I.   Bee-Hunt  in  the  Far  West Irving.  12 

XI.   Bells,  The Poe.  471 

XIII.    Bernardo  del  Carpio Hemans.  531 

IX.    Betsy  and  I  are  Out Carleton.  409 

XII.   Better  in  the  Morning Coun.  521 

III.  Blacksmith's  Story,  The Olive.  136 

I.   Blind  Fiddler,  The Wurdsivorth.  26 

I.    Blind  Highland  Boy,  The Wordsworth.  69 

viii.    Boys,  The Holmes.  339 

IX.   Brakeman  in  Church,  The Burdette.  353 

IV.  Break,  Break,  Break Tennyson.  198 


704  ALPHABETICAL   INDEX   OF    SELECTIONS. 

PAGB 

II.  Bridge,  The Longfelloiv.     107 

XI.  Bugle  Song Tennyson.     473 

XII.  Butterfly's  Ball,  The Eoscoe.     515 

C. 

VII.  Catiline's  Defiance , Croly. 

IV.  Cato's  Soliloquy Addison. 

IX.  Champion  Snorer,  The Anon, 

XI.  Charcoal  Man,  The Trowbridge. 

VI.  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade Tennyson. 

X.  Charlie  Machree Hoppin. 

II.  Children,  The Dickens, 

I.  Child's  Dream  of  a  Star,  A Dickens. 

III.  Christmas  Day Richards. 

I.  Christmas  Eve  in  the  Olden  Time Scott. 

X.  Christmas  Night  in  the  Quarters Russell. 

XIII.  Claudius  and  Cynthia Thompson. 

IV.  Closing  Year,  The Prentice. 

VI.  Composed  at  Cora  Linn Wordsworth. 

X.  Conner Anon. 

I.  Conscience,  A  Good Anon. 

XIII.  Count  Candespina's  Standard Boker. 

IX.  Courtship  under  Difficulties  ...    Anon. 

XI.  Creeds  of  the  Bells Bungay. 

I.  Crusoe's  Fight  with  Wolves Defoe. 

X.  Cuddle  Doon Anderson. 

III.  Curfew  must  not  ring  To-night Tliorpe. 

D. 

VIII.  Daffodils,  The Wordsworth. 

IX.  Darius  Green  and  His  Flying  Machine Trowbridge. 

XII.  Dead  Doll,  The Vandergrijl, 

IX.  Death  of  a  Mad  Dog Goldsmith. 

III.  Death  of  Mr.  Bertram,  The Scolt. 

I.  Destruction  of  Pompeii Lytton. 

IV.  Devotional  Incitements Wordsworth. 

VI.  Divine  Providence  in  Nature Chrysostom. 

XI.  Drifting Read. 

B. 

1.  Edwin  and  Angelina Goldsmith. 

X.  Eiegy  in  a  Coimtry  Churchyard Gray. 


ALPIIABKTICAL    INDKX    OF    SKLECTIONS.  705 

TAGE 

VI.   Eulogium  on  St.  Paul Bossuet.  236 

VI.   Eulogy  on  Lafayette Everett.  283 

XI.    Evening  at  the  Farm Trowbridge.  478 

XII.   Evening  witii  Helen's  Babies Habberton.  495 

I.   Eve,  The  Creation  of Milton.  3 

VIII.    Expostulation  and  Reply Wordsworth.  341 


P. 

xiiT.  Famine,  The Longfellow.  536 

X.  First  Banjo,  The Russell.  453 

I.  First  Settler's  Story,  The Carleton.  20 

VIII.  Fish-Women  at  Calais Wordsworth.  346 

VI.  Flag,  The  American Drake.  270 

VI.  Fortune  of  jEschines Demosthenes.  226 

III.  Forty  Years  Ago Anon.  159 

VII.  Fraudulent  Party  Outcries Webster.  324 

X.  Frenchman  and  Flea-Powder Anon.  420 

X.  Frenchman  on  Macbeth,  A Anon.  421 

I.  Friday's  Frolic  with  a  Bear Defoe.  79 

O. 

XIII.  Gambler's  Wife,  The Coates.  543 

II.  Genevieve Coleridge.  95 

IV.  God Derzhavin.  199 

V.  God  in  Nature Wordsworth.  224 

IV.  God's  First  Temples Bryant.  202 

XIII.  Gone  with  a  Handsomer  Man Carleton.  569 

III.  Good  Son,  The Dana.  171 

II.  Graham,  Mr.,  and  Lady  Clementina MacDonald.  99 


H. 

I.   Happiness  of  Animals Cowper.  93 

III.   Hermit,  The Beattie.  131 

I.    History Fronde.  27 

VI.    Iloratius  at  the  Bridge Macaulay.  256 

VII.   Horrors  of  Savage  Warfare Chatham.  315 

IX.    How  Betsy  and  I  Made  Up Carleton.  411 

HI.   How  He  Saved  St.  Michael's Anon.  139 

IX.    How  Ruby  Played Brownin.  371 

IX.  How  the  Old  Horse  Won  the  Bet Holmes.  389 


706  ALPHABETICAL   INDEX   OF    SELECTIONS. 

PAGE 

IV.    Hymn,  A Coleridge.     192 

V.   Hymn  to  Mont  Blanc Coleridge.     212 

V.   Hymn  to  the  Night Longfellow.    210 


L 

II.  Immortality  of  Love Soutkey.  Ill 

VI.   Impeachment  of  Hastings  Finished Burke.  242 

VIII.    I'm  With  You  Once  Again Morris.  334 

VI.   Independence  Bell Anon.  267 

VII.    Indignation  of  a  Spaniard Wordsworth.  327 

XII.    In  School  Days Whittier.  509 

IV.    Inspiration  of  the  Bible Winthrop.  197 

III.   Isle  of  Long  Ago,  The Taijlor.  156 

J. 

X.  Jeanie  Morrison Motherwell.  462 

I.   Jennie  M'Neal,  The  Ride  of Carleton.  44 

X.   Jimmy  Butler  and  the  Owl Anon.  440 

X.   John  Anderson,  My  Jo Burns.  461 

XIII.   John  Maynard,  the  Hero-Pilot Gough.  545 

XIII.   Johnny  Bartholomew English.  584 

K. 

XIII.    Kate  Shelly Hall.  541 

XII.   Katie  Lee  and  Willie  Gray Hunt.  497 

XII.   Keeping  His  Word Anon.  499 

I.   Knowledge  and  Wisdom Cowper.  1 

L. 

III.  Ladder  of  St.  Augustine,  The Longfellow.  132 

I.   Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere Tennyson.  88 

XIII.    Lady  Clare Tennyson.  546 

VIII.   L'Allegro Milton.  328 

XI.  Last  Hymn,  The Farminghmn.  480 

VIII.    Last  Leaf,  The Holmes.  335 

V.    Launching  of  the  Ship Longfellow.  218 

XII.   Leap  for  Life,  A Colton.  501 

X.    Leedle  Yawcob  Strauss Adams.  427 

1.   Legend  of  Bregenz,  A Procter.  40 

III.  Leonard  and  Margaret Southey.  165 


ALPHABETICAL    INDKX    OK    SKLKCTIONS.  707 

PAGE 

VI.   Liberty  and  Union Webster  266 

XII.    Little  Koeket's  Cliristmas Brown.  502 

XI.   Little  Telltale,  The Atwn.  481 

VI.    Lochiel's  Warning Campbell.  288 

X.   Lord  Dundreary  Proposing  ....          Skill.  414 

II.  Lost  Chord,  A Procter.  114 

XII.    Love  and  Prayer Coleridge.  528 

III.   Lucy  Bertram  and  Dominie  Sampson Scott.  150 

III.    Lucy  Gray Wordsworili.  183 

M. 

XIII.    Maclaine's  Child Machaij.  549 

X.   Magdalena,  or  tlie  Spanish  Duel Anon.  465 

V.  Marco  Bozzaris Halleck.  214 

XII.   Margaret  Gray Lamb.  518 

III.   Marraion  and  Douglas Scott.  312 

VI.    Massachusetts  and  South  Carolina Webster.  304 

VI.    Matches  and  Overmatches Webster.  280 

I.   Maud  MuUer Whittier.  47 

II.   Memory Garfield.  115 

II.    Memory Wordsworth.  123 

III.  Michael  and  His  Son Wordsworth.  162 

X.   Miss  Malony  on  the  Chinese  Question Dodge.  437 

I.   Mona's  Waters Anon.  51 

X.   Monsieur  Tonson Anon.  422 

I.   Morning Webster.  77 

VIII.    Morning  Ride,  A Anon.  333 

xiii.   Mother  and  Poet Mrs.  Browning.  552 

N. 

III.  Nearer  Home Can/.  161 

VIII.   New  Year,  The Tenni/son.  345 

XII.   No  Flowers  on  Papa's  Grave C.  E.  L.  Holmes.  514 

I.   No  Sects  in  Heaven Cleaveland.  31 

O. 

I.   Ocean  Burial,  The Sounders.  169 

I.   Ode  to  the  Passions Collins.  55 

I.    Order  for  a  Picture,  An Can/.  58 

VI.  Our  Duties  to  the  Republic Stan/.  264 

in.  Our  Folks Lynn.  185 


708  ALPHABETICAL   INDEX    OF    SELECTIONS. 

PAGE 

IX.   Our  Guides Mark  Twain.  375 

I.   Our  Travelled  Parson Carleton.  90 

111.   Our  Willie Anon.  158 

u.  Over  the  River Priest.  117 


P. 

I.  Painter  of  Seville,  The Wilson.  61 

VI.   Panegyric  on  Julius  Caesar Cicero.  230 

XII.  Papa's  Letter Anon.  507 

XIII.    Parrhasius  and  the  Captive Willis.  555 

VI.   Patriotism Scott.  251 

VI.   Paul  Revere's  Ride Longfellow.  252 

III.   Pauper's  Death-Bed Southey.  157 

IX.  Pickwick's  Proposal,  Mr Dickens.  379 

II.   Pictures  of  Memory Gary.  119 

VIII.    Pleasure  Boat,  The Dana.  343 

XIII.    Polish  Boy,  The Stephens,  bbl 

III.  Poor  Little  Joe Arkwright,  187 

I.   Potency  of  English  Words Mcintosh.  66 

IV.  Primrose  of  the  Rock,  The Wordsworth.  206 

Till.    Psalm  of  Life,  A Longfellow.  338 

IX.  Pyramus  and  Thisbe Saxe.  386 

R. 

xii.   Rats Loudon.  527 

IX.   Reflections  in  the  Pillory Lamb.  404 

VI.   Reply  to  Mr.  Corry Grattan.  274 

VI.   Reply  to  Walpole Pitt.  262 

VI.    Reputation,  Value  of Charles  Phillips.  300 

VII.   Revolutionary  Desperadoes Mackintosh.  321 

VI,   Rienzi's  Address  to  the  Romans Mitford.  286 

VI.   Rising  of  1776,  The Bead.  272 

III.   Rivermouth  Rocks Whittier.  177 

XI.   Robert  of  Lincoln Bryant.  483 

XI.  Rock  of  Ages Rice.  485 

a 

IX.  Sam  Weller's  Valentine Dickens.  382 

II.  Sandalphon Longfellow.  120 

XIII.  Scotland's  MaidcD  Martyr Anon.  582 


ALPHABETICAL   INDEX   OF   SELECTIONS.  709 

PAGE 

I,  Scott,  Sir  Walter,  and  His  Dogs Irving.  75 

XIII.  Searching  for  the  Slain Anon.  675 

II.  Seen,  Loved,  Wedded Wordsworth.  98 

VII.  Seminole's  Reply,  The Patten.  314 

X.  Senator  Entangled,  A De  Mille,  444 

XII.  Smack  in  School,  The Palmer.  517 

X.  Sockery  Setting  a  Hen Anon.  429 

XII.  Somebody's  Mother Anon.  511 

viii.  Song  of  the  Brook Tennyson.  336 

III.  Song  of  the  Mystic Rijan.  181 

Yii.  Spartacus  to  the  Gladiators Anon.  310 

VI.  Speech  in  the  Virginia  Convention Henry.  290 

VI.  Speech  of  Vindication Emmet.  293 

III.  Stability  of  Nature,  The Marshall.  168 

VI.  Stamp  Act,  Against  the Chatham.  238 

V.  St.  Peter's  Church  at  Rome Byron.  222 

VI.  Supposed  Speech  of  John  Adams Webster.  245 

IV,  Supreme  Being,  To  the Michael  Angela.  191 

X.  Swell,  The Kyle.  417 

T. 

XII.  Tame  Hares Oowper.  523 

II.  Tears,  Idle  Tears Tennyson.  117 

III.  Thanatopsis Bryant.  128 

IX.  Tom's  Little  Star Foster.  395 

IX.  Too  Late  for  the  Train Anon.  400 

VI.  Toussaint  L'Ouverture Wendell  Phillips.  302 

XII.  To  Whom  shall  We  give  Thanks  ? Anon.  512 

II.  Tranquillity,  Ode  to Coleridge.  122 

U. 

X.  Uncle  Daniel's  ApparitioD Clemens  and  Warner.  456 

V. 

XIII.  Vagabonds,  The Trowbridge.  572 

XIII.  Virginia :  a  Lay  of  Ancient  Rome Macaulay.  561 

v.  Visions  of  Mist  Splendours Wordsworth.  210 

W. 

III.  Widow  and  Her  Son,  The Irving.  173 

III.  Winifreda    , Anon.  136 


710  ALPHABETICAL   INDEX   OF    SELECTIONS. 

yAGB 

VI.   "Wisdom  Dearly  Purchased Burke,    277 

xiii.    Wounded , Miller.    564 

XIII.   Wreck  of  the  Hesperus Longfellow.    566 


Y. 

VIII.   Young  Lochinvar Scott.  331 

SCENES  PROM  POPULAB  DRAMAS. 

Don  Carlos Schiller.  670 

Hunchback,  The Knowles.  586 

Ingomar Halm.  603 

Ion :  A  Tragedy Talfourd.  Qbl 

Leah,  the  Forsaken Dalij.  619 

Mary  Stuart Schiller.  623 

Richelieu Lijtton.  630 

School  for  Scandal,  The Sheridan.  634 

Virginius Knowles.  641 

Index  to  Scenes  from  Shakespeare 681 

Index  to  Readings  from  the  Bible 694 

Index  to  Hymns < 698 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  AT  LOS  ANGELES 

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